


Surrender (Every End is a New Beginning)

by mlo90



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blood, Canon Divergence, Childhood Trauma, Complicated Relationships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Violence, Lakota Mythology, Military, Swearing, just venting my frustrations, though some events will be similar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-07-25 12:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7533238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlo90/pseuds/mlo90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What keeps people from surrendering and letting go? Pride or fear? Stubbornness or stupidity? Ingrained habits or deliberate decisions? As far as Bulma is concerned, the answer is simple: she <em>doesn't</em> let go. Growing up and working in the military taught her to meet every obstacle head-on, so it's small wonder that an unexpected shoot-out leaves her hell-bent on finding the bastards who have caused the whole mess. This time, however, she ends up getting a little more than she bargained for – and the devil is <em>every</em> bit as black as he is painted. Or is he..?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hi, I should probably introduce myself, but I'm not really good at introductions - let's just say that I've finally mustered up the courage to register and stop reading fanfics and giving kudos as a guest. Hmm, I also decided to post the first chapter of my story, though I'm not really sure if it's such a great idea ;) English is not my first language and there's no one who could check my writing - I do my best, but I know it's not perfect, so I apologise for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes and look forward to receiving constructive criticism. Thank you!

 

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 - - -

“ _It’s never the changes we want that change everything.”  
__\- Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao_

  - - -

**CHAPTER 1**

It feels _sooo_ good…  so _fucking_ good _…_ My body starts convulsing, twitching and tightening uncontrollably, my breathing turns shallow and frantic and I know that all I need is just _one more_ move. So I make that move, and within seconds I’m spiraling downwards, my heart racing, tiny little gasps escaping my mouth, black and white dots dancing in front of my closed eyelids. I’m coming,  and right now _nothing_ else matters.

But, mere ten minutes later, it’s time to come back to reality. It’s always like this – one, maybe two sick, mind-numbing orgasms, and then BOOM, I’m back from my high and they’re only a pleasant memory. And a not-so-pleasant reminder, that for the umpteenth time within two years it’s Friday night and I’m alone, wanting _something more_ than just my fingers. I can understand work, of course I can – I’m a devotee in what I do and I expect nothing less from  Yamcha. He is a baseball player in a military sports club, so his work is pretty unpredictable, especially in season: one week here, one week there, then three weeks somewhere else, but it doesn’t bother me. We don’t have kids and my working time is flexible, so it’s not like I _need_ him to be home at five or six sharp every day. I can also understand hobbies – I have them too, even if they are closely linked to my work. I just love fiddling with machines and guns and solving equations. His hobbies? Baseball, martial arts and computer games. Nothing extraordinary, I guess, but sometimes he gets a little _too_ absorbed in the latter.  

But what I _can’t_ and probably _won’t_ understand, is his refusal to stay with me at home on his free weekends. We’re not sixteen anymore - I don’t want him to stay so we could sit on the couch, hold hands and watch stupid movies all day or confess undying love to each other under the moonlight. We’re twenty-six, and I just want to feel that we’re _really_ living together. Eat dinner with him on Saturday, ask him to help me with the shopping list, maybe do a barbecue in our garden and drink a beer or two - just chill in comfortable silence, interrupted from time to time by more or less casual conversation. It’s not like it hadn’t happened before - we used to do all of those things together. I sometimes wonder how things would look like if we were still living with my parents. Would it be any different? But then I remember exactly _why_ we decided to move out, and I no longer think about might-have-beens. The main reason were our fights. Suddenly we started having a _very_ different approach to lots of things. I’m a loud person - my voice is a strong one, even if I’m relaxed and not pissed at all. And when I _am_ pissed, I reach a wholly new level. So we were fighting, I was shouting, sometimes throwing things, and Yamcha, being the more quiet one in our relationship, was just standing there, sometimes trying to calm me down, and sometimes only half-listening. Then he started calmly packing his things, not uttering a word, and _bam_ , he was out of our room and out of the house. Maybe that’s his secret technique? I’ve always felt awful afterwards. Even if the fight wasn’t my fault, I felt like it _was._ And if it _really_ was my fault, I was ready to apologize within the next hour, as soon as I cooled off a bit. But he rarely came back the next day. Usually it took him a little over 24 hours to even accept a call from me. I know I’m not an easy person to live with - I’m stubborn, a bit vain, and a perfectionist who likes to bitch and do things her way, but he has his faults too.

I felt bad in front of my parents. They have their life and I felt like we overstayed our welcome – sure, my family house is enormous, but my parents aren’t blind or deaf. They knew what was going on. I understood that we have to move out after my mom, a woman who is quite an airhead and _never_ confronts me about my choices, told me that maybe I should rethink my relationship with Yamcha – because yes, he’s a sweet boy, but we don’t seem to fit together, and I don’t look _too_ happy to her. I spent days thinking about her words and came to a conclusion that me and Yamcha should try living on our own, just the two of us - and Yamcha agreed with that. As I said, the house is huge, but the thought about living with my parents was always in the back of my head. For example, I never left any dishes in the sink, even if I was tired as hell, because I knew my mom didn’t do that. It’s not like she would scold me, of course not – she probably wouldn’t even _think_ about saying something, but she _always_ washed the dishes after she and my father finished eating or cooking. It was _her_ kitchen, _her_ habit, so I washed them too and told Yamcha to do the same – always clean up after yourself, never leave anything in the sink. The list could go on and on. And, of course, there was also the thing with sex. I’m not shy – quite the opposite, actually – but the thought about my parents hearing our grunts and moans and the creaking of our bed was absolutely _terrifying._ Or my mom coming in while we were at it… She’s ditzy – she _could_ do that. Of course, we’ve had sex and it was good, but uninhibited sex at home was possible only when my parents were out.

So here I am, two years after moving out and not really feeling happier or more fulfilled. Yes, I could go with Yamcha when he leaves for the weekend – I used to do that. We just packed our car and off we went. My family had a cozy house in the countryside, near Yamcha’s favorite place for training martial arts, not too far away from Goku Son, one of our best friends. Oh, those were the days… The boys were training, I was sitting nearby with a book or a laptop, sometimes observing them, sometimes only looking up when I heard a particularly loud _thump_ , or hanging out with ChiChi, Goku’s fiancée. What happened? Well, first of all – they got married at the tender age of eighteen, and a few months later ChiChi gave birth to a son. He’s six now and a cute little thing, but he has their full attention, so Goku trains a little less than before, and he does that mostly alone, in his backyard, only when Gohan is asleep. Secondly, we gave the house to the Sons – after Gohan’s birth they needed more than one room, so it wasn’t a hard decision to make. They wanted to offer us their house in return, but I refused, telling them to sell it and just keep the money. Money was never a problem in my family, and I’m always happy when I’m able to help.

We planned to buy a new cottage, but the idea watered down. On most weekends we just went to a hotel or rented a house on the beach. And when Yamcha wanted to train, we slept in a tent. After four years of that kind of routine I felt tired. I started spending some weekends at home or with my parents. Yamcha still left to train. He even asked me to go with him a few times, but he always did that when I really _couldn’t_ , either because I was exhausted after a particularly hard week at my dad’s company, or had to do some extra task for Roshi. Then he stopped asking, so I thought that maybe he needed time for himself or wanted to spend some time with Krillin or guys from his baseball team. That was okay with me - being in a relationship doesn’t mean that you have to be with the other person 24/7, and I’ve never wanted him to feel _trapped_. But somewhere along the way, I lost the desire to go with him, though I’ve still tried to convince him to stay at home during some weekends. He did – when his team was staying in West City, when he was too tired to train or it was too cold for him to go anywhere (which happened mainly in the winter). Usually he just called me on Thursday or Friday to tell that he’s leaving the city for the weekend, sometimes without even coming back home because he had everything that he needed in his car. I kept telling myself that it’s okay, that I have things to do and places to be (such as my parent’s or Goku’s house), that it’s not unusual for couples to spend their free time separately. But now I see that from that moment we've just started to drift further and further apart from each other.

Especially as lovers.

  ~~~~~~

 _they are kissing again_  
_involuntarily as though through sleep_  
_without reaction_

_to each other’s bodies_

_what keeps them alive_  
_is the morphine of former_

 _memories and_  
  
_ritual of shared nights_  
_ritual of shared days_   _(*)_

 ~~

_(*) from a song called “Rak miłości” (“Love cancer”) by Republika (obviously, I don’t own the lyrics – I just translated them from Polish to English for the sake of this story)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I’m just shallow. Maybe I’m expecting too much. Maybe it’s supposed to be like that after years of being together? Maybe… But I know I need more. I want more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A very big thank you for leaving kudos :) and for taking a peek at my story - I don't know how many of you have actually managed to get through the first chapter, but I assume at least one person has ;)

 

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 2**

Yamcha and I used to watch movies together, cuddled under the blankets, munching on popcorn or dried fruits. We don’t do that anymore. Lying in bed in the evening, talking silently or just enjoying each other’s presence? Doesn’t happen either. It’s not like I have a list of things that should take place while I’m in a relationship - I just believe that every couple should have their own rituals, something more than spending days and nights together, and try to uphold them or create new ones. Our rituals were long gone and we did nothing to bring them back. We also used to talk about _lots_ of things – things we did at school or work, movies we saw, people we met or plans for the future. Yamcha was kind of shy as a teenager, but he grew out of it – besides, he’s never had a problem with talking with his friends. Especially with _me_ , because I’ve always been a motor mouth. But when he’s at home, we talk less and less, and if we do it’s usually just about day-to-day stuff. If Yamcha was a guy who has _never_ talked a lot, it would probably be different, but I feel weird when I ask him what he would like to eat for dinner or what should we order from the grocery store (and I have to repeat myself a few times to catch his attention, because he is caught up in his computer game) and he just looks up at me and replies with “whatever you wish”. It’s similar with putting dishes into the dishwasher or doing the laundry. I’m not a neat freak (easy to notice – just look at my part of the bedroom or my private office), the dishes can wait for two days in the sink and we have enough clothes to do the laundry once or maybe twice a week, but when it comes to doing just that, I have to mention it five or six times or _drag_ Yamcha to the kitchen or the laundry room. 

Spending time together? Well, he just holes himself up in our bedroom or living room with his laptop. And, to be honest, I do exactly the same thing. Sometimes we even sit in the same room, getting on with our own affairs until one of us decides to finish for the day and go to bed. I’m not saying it’s completely wrong, but in our case it’s _not_ a companionable silence. It’s awkward. It’s pure avoidance – of our problems, of confrontations. If it’s the weekend, and by some miracle he decides to stay at home, I somehow manage to convince him to help me with cleaning up the house. Then we visit my parents for dinner or hang out with the Sons and Krillin. Apart from that, we just sit in front of our laptops, sometimes exchanging a few words, and sometimes talking briefly right before falling asleep. Yep, just like riding in an elevator with someone – it’s polite to at least _acknowledge_ each other’s presence.

We still call or text each other while he is away, we still have our private jokes and memories from our younger years, but things are different.  On those rare times he is at home during the working week (or, exclusively, on weekends) I feel like I am living with my brother. Or rather with my best friend, with whom I sometimes have sex.  And said sex lacks something _very_ important: passion. There’s no prepping, no teasing, no word-play, no touching or undressing. The main goal of climbing into bed is to _sleep_ , but if one us (usually Yamcha) feels like having sex, we do some half-hearted touching, sometimes exchange a few sloppy kisses, and then I just roll onto my stomach, he shoves his dick up my cunt and we get it over with. Yeah, sounds harsh, but that’s just the way it is. Most times I manage to finish myself off with my fingers while he is fucking me - and when I do, it’s _wonderful_. Sometimes I don’t, but I still act as if I just came. He never notices anyway, so I guess I’m quite good at faking it. It’s not that Yamcha is a horrible lover – well, he’s not great at touching my clit or eating me out (he’s never been and I can live without it, besides he rarely does those things now), but I know that he _wants_ me to orgasm. Especially when he takes his time, fucking me slowly, fondling my breasts, licking my ears and changing positions, trying to make me almost unconscious with desire, just like he did many times before. But it doesn’t work that way – not anymore. Maybe that’s also why it happens less and less frequently. Maybe he, too, feels that things are different between us and fucking for more than fifteen minutes doesn’t really make sense? And maybe he just thinks that “I can’t…”, which I sometimes involuntarily whisper during sex, means that I’m physically unable to take more pleasure? Well, newsflash: it doesn’t.

Hearing his moans and quick breaths, feeling him inside me, his body above or beneath mine, his lower abdomen rubbing against my clit was once enough to send me over the edge. It didn’t matter if it was just a quick, frantic romp or an hour-long session. He wasn’t my first, but he was the one with whom I learned the most and started to properly _enjoy_ sex. We constantly explored our bodies, experimenting and just having fun, but I guess the times of hot, passionate foreplay and sex in different places were just gone. At some point, we both tried to recreate this fire, but failed miserably. Maybe I’m just shallow. Maybe I’m expecting too much. Maybe it’s supposed to be like that after years of being together? Maybe… But I know I need more. I _want_ more. Sure, I usually feel… _nice_ when he’s sliding in and out of me, but it’s not like it used to be. Yes, it’s not unusual to need additional stimulation – but mere two or three years ago all I needed was a little prepping and then it was just him and his body rubbing against mine, his breath fanning my ear or neck. Touching myself was only a way of heating things up by letting him watch while he was fucking me. Now I _have to_ touch myself, though having him inside me definitely helps.

But I’m often horny and he is a rare guest at home, so I take matters into my own hands. Literally.

~~

_And maybe you will tell me_  
_How am I supposed to say_  
_That I don’t love you anymore, I don’t want_  
_That when I see how it is_  
_I don’t have the shivers anymore_  
_I’m not running out of air_  
_I’m no longer crying out: more, more, more (*)_

~~

It may not look like it, but I don’t blame him, not completely. I know I’m also partially responsible. I initiate sex only when I feel that he _expects_ me to do it. I avoid positions in which we are face to face, because I’m worried he will see in my eyes _everything_ that I’m afraid to say out loud. I don’t confront him with things that annoy me in his behavior, because I know that at some point I’ll get too loud, and he _hates_ when I do that. Sometimes I wish he would just yell back and argue with me a little, just to blow off some steam and preferably have some hot make-up sex afterwards. 

We’re not genuinely present in each other’s lives and it kind of feels like we have both decided to just give up. Live together, yes, but more like roommates than partners. Maybe we _really_ are not made for each other, and it took moving out of my parent’s house to help us realize that? Our tenth anniversary is approaching fast and I feel like I should make a decision. The worst thing is, I can’t imagine myself being _without_ Yamcha. Things are different between us, but my mind doesn’t seem to accept that – not fully, anyway, because as soon as I start _seriously_ thinking about breaking up, I recall only good moments. Laughs, hugs, declarations of love, calm evenings spent in each other’s arms – I see and hear them all, replaying in my head like a slideshow composed of photos, videos and snippets of memories.

Everything is fucked up. I am fucked up. My relationship is fucked up and I have to get out of the house or else I’ll go crazy, so I pick up my phone and call Krillin.

\------------

_(*) from a song called “Jeszcze, jeszcze” (“More, more”) by Happysad (obviously, I don’t own the lyrics – I just translated them from Polish to English for the sake of this story)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funny, how my biggest adventure so far turned out to be also my most valuable lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Again, a very big thank you for leaving kudos and taking a peek at my story :) I know there's no actual action BUT it's going to change in the next chapter (yay..?). For now, it's time to shed some light on someone else's past...
> 
> PS no.1: This chapter is slighly longer than previous ones - I had no idea how to divide it in two, so I just left it that way.

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 3**

I ended up at Roshi’s. Not a huge surprise, taking into consideration that Krillin lives here and I specifically told him I’m not in the mood to go to a club or a bar. So we are just sitting together, talking about everything _but_ Yamcha, while Roshi is watching _women’s tennis_ and grinning lecherously while they’re grunting with effort and jumping in their tiny skirts. He is a perverted old weirdo but, at the same time, one of the wisest men I’ve known. A retired general officer, titled and respected for his achievements and successful missions, founder of one of the best military schools in this part of the world. He is adequately educated, but the wisdom I’m talking about isn’t bookish – it’s based purely on his own experiences, years spent on observing and analyzing human behavior. He helped many young people, enrolling them into his school and into the army, diverting them from their dangerous, careless or purposeless lifestyles. Meeting Roshi was a turning point in my life, though (unlike most boys in his school and military unit) I wasn’t a problem child from an incomplete family or an orphan. My parents have always showered me with love and affection, showing their support and understanding. I never had to worry about my future, because I knew I would inherit my father’s thriving company, Capsule Corp., along with staggering amounts of money. Yes, I’m _a bit_ spoiled, but I’ve always known that I have to be _my own_ person. Not an impersonation of anyone’s wants, needs or unfulfilled dreams, nor the _perfect_ little genius-girl everyone thought me to be. At the age of seven I was able to solve equations and build machines on par with my father, but I still went to public schools like regular kids, just to get in touch with my peers and live a fairly _normal_ life. After finishing middle school I needed a break – I didn’t really know what should I do next: go to a public high school or graduate extramurally and focus on my studies? I've always wanted to work at Capsule Corp., but I wasn’t sure if that was the _only_ thing I’d like to do.

I wanted to see what life has to offer, so I decided to hop into my car and just wander around the country – have fun and hopefully find the missing piece. And maybe my _prince charming_ , a boy who would like me for who I am, not my family’s money and reputation. That’s how I met Goku, Krillin, Roshi and then Yamcha, Tien and Chiaotzu. Thanks to my technological skills and fondness for guns I became a part of Roshi’s team – first at school, and then at work, as a technician and weapons expert in his military unit. Within six months of stumbling upon Roshi, Goku and Krillin in the woods, I was able to graduate from Roshi’s high school, pass my matura exam and begin an individual course of studies. Three and a half years later I had a PhD in materials engineering and a master’s degree in computer science. And, in the meantime, I grew up. Yes, I’ve had fun. I’ve done so many different things that I should probably start cataloguing them and I’ve found a boyfriend, but first and foremost I’ve learned a lot about life. Funny, how my biggest adventure so far turned out to be also my most valuable lesson.

Krillin accidentally mentions Yamcha, and I immediately become tense. Fortunately, he’s not as clueless as Goku – he just laughs awkwardly, takes a sip of his beer and starts talking about plans for tomorrow. He wants to invite the Sons, maybe try to contact Tien and Chiaotzu, and organize a small reunion. I like this idea. I was so absorbed in my work that I haven’t seen them since our short meeting on Christmas, and it’s the middle of June – high time to catch up. Involuntarily, I wonder if I should call Yamcha, but we hadn’t parted on the best of terms when he left to train last night, so I decide against it. Despite the late hour, Krillin sends the invitations via text messages and e-mails. Five minutes later, he receives a response from Goku: ‘great! was thinkin bout u. me & Gohan c u tomorrow’. Yeah, typical Goku, with his warped messages and cheerful approach to everything that happens around him. As I understand, ChiChi won’t be coming along, but I really can’t blame her. Gohan is an extremely polite and calm kid, but having him _and_ Goku at home on a daily basis is definitely not easy – she needs her rest, too.

Krillin and Roshi are already planning a trip to the shop, running between the kitchen and the pantry. I can hear their conspiratorial whispers and snickers and I _know_ they are talking about buying more booze and dirty magazines. But I don’t really mind – not when for the first time in a long time I feel _alive_. So I join them, writing down our shopping list and then hopping into Roshi’s Jeep Wrangler, Roshi behind the wheel and Krillin with me in the back. After all, going _anywhere_ from their home is always quite a trip - they live in a fucking god-forsaken place, a small island in the middle of Lake Kame, connected with the mainland by an old and battered floating bridge. And said lake is surrounded by _nothingness_. There’s only one highway there, crossing through the desert valleys and desolate areas, with no signs of civilization. You have to drive 62 miles to reach the nearest village and 75 if you want to find a town. We do just that, speeding down the highway, laughing and chatting, our special road trip mixtape playing in the background. When I hear the very first tunes of Iron Maiden’s ‘Wasted Years’, I can’t help but feel a small pang of regret and longing in my heart.

\- - -

Tien and Chiaotzu politely declined Krillin’s invitation, but that’s just the way they are – a bit distanced, but always ready to help when needed. Goku arrived late (nothing new here) with little Gohan in tow, his car loaded with homemade snacks prepared by ChiChi, as well as fresh fruits and vegetables from their garden. Just seeing Goku and Gohan makes me feel better. Goku, though only two years my junior, has always been like a _much_ younger brother to me, and I’m incredibly proud of him – I was the one who helped Roshi in turning him from an uncouth kid to the man he is today. Of course, he’s still a bit… _wild_ , but it’s a far cry from his previous behavior. He hasn’t found a steady job, preferring to act as a freelance soldier in Roshi’s military unit, but he managed to earn a nice sum by winning the Military Martial Arts Tournament just a few months before Gohan’s birth. As far as I know, they are still living off this money - and the money ChiChi’s father gave them after they got married.

_Married._

Well, I guess not everyone is like me and Yamcha - going out for almost ten years, and yet still no marriage plans, no desire to have a baby. I don’t really think I need a wedding ring on my finger or a kid at my breast right _now_ , but it would be nice to know if we are still on the same page in this matter. It probably wouldn’t bother me so much if it wasn’t for the fact that we really used to talk about those things, and now they are like a taboo.

But I’m not going to think about it now. My friends and I have the whole weekend to ourselves, and we are going to have fun - I want to spend that time _laughing_ , not pondering on my problems.

\- - -

The reunion is in full swing. The boys are telling stories from their time in Roshi’s school and army, Krillin wriggling his eyebrows suggestively every time he refers to Roshi’s extensive collection of _educational magazines_ \- Goku is of course as clueless as ever, stopping mid-sentence or mid-laugh to ask if Krillin meant the ones about gardening or cooking, because he had read them all and never managed to find anything about ‘ _popping the cherry’_ or ‘ _cutie-pies’_ they so often mention. It was a good thing that Gohan has already fallen asleep – the kid is bright and a fast learner to boot, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he would be able to understand _what_ kind of magazines Krillin had in mind. As for Goku, it’s beyond me _how_ a guy who had Roshi as a teacher and caretaker has managed to stay so… innocent when it comes to certain matters, but I’m glad he has. He is often labeled as ‘childish’ because he’s jovial, straightforward and sometimes a bit _too_ trusting, but that’s only a part of his personality – I call it ‘standard mode’. When he’s doing something for the army, he switches to ‘battle mode’ and his demeanor changes completely. He immediately becomes serious, his tone of voice different, his vocabulary more mature and professional, his posture radiating self-confidence. He has always been a genius when it comes to fighting, so it’s not like the latter is unjustified.

There is also one more important reason why I’m so proud that Goku has managed to become the man he is today. Yes, he was an uncouth fourteen-year-old kid when I met him those ten long years ago, but his earlier life was not easy. His grandfather (not even blood-related grandfather - he found little Goku in the woods and just took him in as his grandson) had been killed when Goku was five, maybe six years old, so he lived _alone_ in a small house in the middle of the forest until he stumbled upon Roshi. I freaked out when Goku  told me that he was the one who found his grandfather in the morning - in the backyard, in a pool of his own blood, still warm but already ghastly white, a sad half-smile on his stiffening face, a small gun lying forgotten a few meters from his body. I’ve never understood _how_ Goku managed to stay _sane_ after that experience and why was he even able to do anything more than cry and scream, but when he first told me about his past he reassured me that his grandpa was ‘ _really smart’_ and knew that someday he was going to die, so he often told him stories about not fearing death and just embracing it, because dead people go to the Otherworld and the Otherworld is a ‘ _really nice and beautiful_ _place_ ’. His grandpa’s wish was to be cremated and his ashes to be scattered in the forest. And here’s the creepiest part:

Goku did just that.

A kid, a small snot-nosed brat stacked up the wood on a nearby glade, _dragged_ his grandfather’s body there and _burnt it,_ letting the wind scatter the ashes. That was a bit _too_ much to handle for my sixteen-year-old self, so I fainted. Why the hell hasn’t he called the police? A hospital? A morgue? Or anyone, really? The answer was simple: at that time he didn’t even _know_ what a phone was and his grandpa was the only person he knew. Goku’s first words after I regained consciousness? “Oi, Bulma, don’t worry! Followed grandpa’s wish, bet he’s proud of me ‘n happy in the Otherworld!”.

Grandpa taught him martial arts, but also how to hunt, plant herbs and vegetables and prepare his own food, so Goku never really had to seek help. He carried on, but kept his eyes open in case his grandpa’s murderer decided to come back, because he wanted to tell him that killing is _bad_ , that it _hurts_ people and he _shouldn’t have_ done that to his grandpa. He wanted to ask him _why_ and maybe beat him up a bit, but let him live, because _everyone_ deserves a second chance. Goku decided to keep the gun he found near his grandpa’s body – as disturbing as it was, for him it was a relic of sorts, reminding him about loss and suffering, but at the same time about the need to overcome every adversity and move forward. He’s never used the gun, just kept it near his bed, so at some point I thought that maybe I’ll be able to find the gunman’s fingerprints or any other clue that could help with solving the murder, but it was not my place to mention it and Goku has never asked for an investigation.

The mystery solved itself around Goku’s fifteenth birthday, but the answer was _far_ from pleasant. One night I was awoken by a loud crash coming somewhere from behind the boarding house, as though from the barracks. Without much thought I got up and ran in that direction, expecting to see an intruder or a drunk soldier coming back from his leave of absence, but I definitely _wasn’t_ ready for the sight that greeted me. Goku was lying on the ground, his silhouette illuminated by the full moon, Yamcha, Tien, Krillin and two other soldiers holding him down and Roshi trying to pry a baseball bat from his right hand. What the _hell_??? The boys managed to explain that one of the patrolling soldiers spotted Goku walking stiffly in the direction of the barracks, carrying a baseball bat - that alone was suspicious, because he wasn’t a member of our military baseball team, he couldn’t even _play_ baseball. The soldier decided to ask Goku if it wasn’t a bit _too late_ for practicing strikes, but Goku didn’t reply – he just surged towards him, taking a few swipes with the bat. The soldier managed to dodge, but they struggled with each other for some time and the commotion alerted the others.

Several hours later everything was clear. Roshi took Goku to the best military hospital in the area and it turned out that Goku is… a sleepwalker. In his conversation with the doctor, Goku admitted that his grandfather always gave him a special blend of herbs to drink before going to sleep and tightly closed the curtains in his room. He never explained why he did that, just told Goku it’s an old trick that will allow him to sleep well and wake up relaxed. Goku followed these rules even after his grandfather’s tragic death, but the night preceding the incident in the barracks he used his last portion of herbs, forgetting to prepare a new blend. According to the doctor, the lack of herbs (slightly less efficient, but otherwise similar to medicines prescribed for sleepwalkers) caused a sleepwalking episode. Aggressive behavior is a rare occurrence, but the doctor considered the possibility that in Goku’s case the full moon somehow intensified his symptoms and triggered violent reactions. His grandfather was probably well aware of this fact, and that was why the curtains were always tightly shut.

_Grandfather_. Since his return from the hospital, I heard Goku repeating this word from time to time, a hint of uncertainty and dismay in his voice, as if he knew that he should realize something, but had no idea what it was. All the doubts were finally dispelled by Roshi. Up until that night at the hospital Goku never really told Roshi anything distinctive about his grandfather, not even his name, so Roshi wasn’t able to figure it out earlier: he knew Goku’s grandfather. They served in the same military unit for ten years and eventually went their separate ways, but still exchanged letters from time to time. Roshi said that in one of his last letters Gohan (because that was Goku’s grandfather’s name) wrote about a child he found in the woods and decided to raise as his own grandson. The boy was wearing just a diaper and the only thing lying in his vicinity was a small case with an inscription in a strange, unknown to him language. Inside, against a thick layer of white material, was a shiny, probably custom-made gun, with shorter inscriptions in the same language visible on its silver barrel and red handle.

Just like the one Goku found near his grandfather’s body.

There was no hard evidence, but even Goku understood that it was _too much_ of a coincidence. He knew there was absolutely no chance that a guy with _exactly_ the same gun suddenly decided to visit their remote house in the middle of the forest. He already knew. On that disastrous night he somehow managed to get out of his bed. And _he_ was the one who found the gun and killed his grandfather.

_That_ was far worse than a six-year-old burning his grandfather’s body. And once again, I have no idea how on earth was he able to pull himself together as fast as he did. A few weeks alone with Roshi in the middle of nowhere – that’s all it took to put Goku back on his feet. The only thing that _has_ changed is his approach to that damned gun. He still keeps it near his bed, probably right beside his medicines, but it holds a different meaning. It’s a reminder that life is a constant work on oneself, on maintaining a balance between the body, soul and mind, on overcoming the dark side of one’s own personality and getting out of this as better, stronger and wiser person.

\- - -

I’m slowly dozing off. Talking and drinking until early hours of the morning and remembering all our adventures never gets old, but it sure is tiring. Goku went upstairs a few minutes ago, so he’s probably already sleeping soundly, sprawled on the bed next to Gohan. Krillin pours the last few drops of his beer to the sink, mumbling something that sounds like “freaking upstairs bedroom”. And Roshi… Oh, as usual – sleeping on his mattress on the floor, half of his face lying on the fold-out page of ‘Dirty Schoolgirls’ or some other crappy magazine. Yeah, it’s time to go to bed. After all, the weekend has not finished yet and we’re looking forward to spending Sunday together, probably watching movies, lazing on the small beach and playing with Gohan. Peaceful, pleasant Sunday – that’s our plan.

\- - -

Unbeknownst to Bulma, their plan was _not_ going to work out the way they expected it to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS no.2: Where I live, you enter middle school at thirteen, after six years of primary school, and finish it three years later (it's possible to be younger or older, but 13-16 is the usual age range there).
> 
> PS no.3: I know the sleepwalking thing may seem a bit strange and unreal, but... umm... it's an AU, right..? ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something wasn’t quite _right_. He had no idea _what_ exactly was off and wasn’t really looking forward to finding out, but his gut rarely failed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Same as before ;) a very big thank you for leaving kudos and taking a peek at my story :) As for the chapter: different POV. Aaand... it's short - more like a teaser of what's to come. I know the same thing is in my first A/N (chapter 1), but: English is not my first language and there's no one who could check my writing - I do my best, but I know it's not perfect, so I apologise for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes and look forward to receiving constructive criticism. Thank you!

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

**CHAPTER 4**

“Hoooly _hell_ … my head!”

“Well, it’s not like anyone _forced_ you to drink so much, Krills!” Bulma replied, her tone sarcastic but without a hint of malice, her eyes and face an obvious indication that she was just teasing him.

“Yeah, should’ve listened to Goku, I know,” he sighed, reluctantly getting up from the couch and heading towards the kitchen. “I’ll go make coffee.”

“Mhm, good idea, could use one too,” she followed, giving the living room the once-over to make sure there were no empty beer bottles left anywhere.

As they were waiting for the coffee machine to finish brewing, they heard a boyish squeak followed by Goku’s infectious laughter and then the unmistakable sound of small feet hitting the carpeted stairs. Seconds later, Gohan appeared in the kitchen doorway.

“Good morning Aunt Bulma, Uncle Krillin,” he said, immediately straightening out his disheveled hair and trying to fix the buttons of his shirt.

“Hi, kid,” Bulma replied, as Krillin gave the boy a friendly wave. “No need to be so formal with us, we’re not as old as we look, you know!” she ruffled his hair, successfully bringing the dark locks back to their previous state. Gohan flushed a bit and lowered his gaze, but then looked up at her again and gave her one of the brightest smiles she’s ever seen. God, that kid was just _too_ precious.

“Just like an adult, neh, Gohan?” another hand, this time much bigger, found its way to Gohan’s hair, ruffling it even more. “ChiChi’s teachin’ him all the important stuff about being polite and all… Oh, geez, is that coffee?”

“Yep, trying to get back on our feet,” said Krillin, pouring a 10ml cup of creamer into Bulma’s mug.

“Umm I’m no expert, but ChiChi says it’s dehydrating and alcohol is like that too, so you should.. umm… hahah, ya know…” Goku rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, cocking his head a bit to the right.

“…drink tomato juice to resupply potassium. And water, as they both contribute to an adequate hydration,” finished Gohan, a serious look on his childish face.

Now _that_ was quite unexpected. Bulma and Krillin were stunned. Sure, they knew Gohan was smart and definitely not your typical six-year-old thinking only about toys and playing in the mud, but at that moment it _really_ was like hearing an adult. Goku immediately scooped Gohan up, putting him on his left shoulder, and proudly exclaiming, “Yay, that’s my boy!”.

“Dam… ” – Bulma was about to say ‘damn straight’, but that probably wasn’t the best thing to do in front of a kid, no matter how smart he was – “ _The_ _dam…_ age is fortunately not permanent… I mean, the dehydration, to the body … so, yeah… Do like Gohan said –  tomato juice and water, then coffee, some more juice and water, and maybe a light breakfast, with proteins and all...” Krillin was giving her _the look_ , which meant she was rambling and he probably had a pretty good idea why. It was no secret she has always liked to use certain words when she was excited and she rarely had to restrain herself. “Anyway, that’s a really smart advice – congrats, Gohan,” she finished with a smile.

Gohan thanked her politely, climbed down his father’s body and sat at the table, waiting patiently for breakfast. Goku wasn’t so patient – he just opened the fridge and started rummaging through its contents. 

“You training him a bit?” Roshi’s voice was muffled, which probably meant he was still lying on his mattress.

“Mhmph, m’bit,” - Goku swallowed a mouthful of cheese – “but nothing too serious, just some simple things to keep ‘im fit and healthy and doing somethin’ else than sitting at home. ChiChi says she’d prefer him to work somewhere safe, you know, not in the military or anything like that, so she doesn’t want him to focus on fighting too much. But,” he smiled, his eyes immediately lighting up “she agrees he should learn basic self-defense before goin’ to school.”

At that point Roshi was already in the kitchen, so he just nodded and poured himself a cup of coffee, smiling lightly as he saw the mess Krillin was making while preparing breakfast. He was a good cook, but the volume of beer consumed yesterday certainly didn’t help to improve his coordination and motor skills. Besides, it was not the mess that worried him. He just couldn’t get rid of the feeling that something wasn’t quite _right_. He had no idea _what_ exactly was off and wasn’t really looking forward to finding out, but his gut rarely failed him.

He just hoped it had nothing to do with Dr. Gero.

\- - -

Sunday was every bit as lazy as Bulma imagined. After eating breakfast and leaving poor Krillin to clean up the mess they just lounged in the living room, talking and viewing photos and videos from their younger days. It was Goku’s idea, but she could swear she felt Roshi’s piercing gaze on her every time Yamcha appeared on the screen - as if the old timer was trying to make her talk or figure out what _exactly_ was going on with their relationship. After all, he knew as much as Krillin – they had a fight on Thursday, Yamcha left to train and Bulma came to Lake Kame on Friday, refusing to talk about Yamcha and asking them to do the same. In all honesty, Roshi expected her to start screaming bloody murder and repeatedly hitting Goku with something heavy as soon as he suggested they should dig out the CDs and photo albums, but she was perfectly _calm_. Even a little bit _too_ calm – he knew how she could get when something upset or hurt her, and right now she was just… pensive. If he had to guess...

“Oh man, I sure was scrawny at fifteen!” Krillin shook his head lightly, sinking further into the armchair.

“Yup, but still taller than me!”

“Uh-huh, until you grew out of all of your clothes, like, within six months. And nine years later, here we are,” Krilling shot a quick glance at Gohan, who was sitting on the couch with Goku and Bulma. “I’m barely taller than your son!”

“Heheh...,” Goku’s hand involuntarily shot up to rub the back of his neck. “Speakin’ of Gohan – why don’t we go outside and play with him in the sand, hm?”

“My old bones could definitely use some sun,” Roshi got up from his mattress. “And there’s nothing better than sitting in my deckchair and reading magazines!”

“Yeah, some _magazines_   you have...” Bulma snickered, but got up as well and headed to the front door. “Last one outside is a rotten egg!” she shouted childishly and rushed forward.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Who the _hell_ could have decided to pay them an unannounced visit? ChiChi, Tien or Chiaotzu were out of the question – they would certainly call or text them before dropping in. That left only Yamcha. The photocell installed on the shoreline would give them a signal as soon as any outsider entered the bridge or stepped into the water, she was sure of it – after all, _she_ was the one who designed the system and equipped their friends and family with tiny chips which enabled them to cross the bridge without turning on the alarm.

She looked around the room. Goku and Krillin’s eyebrows were slightly raised, Gohan cocked his head to the side, presumably curious, and Roshi… Well, Roshi actually looked anxious, but she didn’t really have the time to wonder _why_.

“Umm... it’s probably Yamcha, so...” she started, but Krillin was already getting up from the armchair.

“Nah, sure thing, I’ll get it,” he said, reaching the door in few, swift steps.

That’s when Roshi decided to speak up.

 “You may want to take your - ”

Just then the door flew open and Krillin was sent flying through the air, crashing onto the coffee table in the living room, landing on a heap of broken wood and glass.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fully expected him to shoot, but he just lowered the gun he held in his right hand, applied the safety lock and twirled it around his trigger finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as before ;) a very big thank you for leaving kudos (and a comment!) and taking a peek at my story :)

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 5**

“Gun! Grab your _fucking_ gun!” screamed Bulma, the ‘no swearing in front of kids’ rule clearly thrown out the window, as she backpedaled towards the couch. Fortunately, Goku has already managed to grab Gohan and put him behind it. She spun around and threw herself belly-first on the floor, sliding towards the couch, silently thanking Roshi for putting a carpet only under the coffee table, quite far away from other furniture, and Krillin for keeping the floor smooth and shiny. A soon as she reached her destination, she hugged Gohan and shrieked, “Son! The _freaking_ gun!”

Roshi was slowly crawling towards Krillin, intending to snatch his gun from the nearby commode on the way. He should have done that as soon as he felt that something was _wrong,_ but he didn’t want to spoil the serene atmosphere. Well, it went to shit, anyway.

But Goku didn’t listen to Bulma – when it came to fighting, he rarely did. He just rushed towards the attacker, attempting to tackle him to the ground, but something went _horribly_ wrong. Within seconds he was on his knees, clutching his abdomen, panting and groaning. Bulma peeked over the couch, scared shitless, now even _more_ than sure they were all going to _die_. She just hoped Roshi has managed to…

“Try anythin’ funny, gramps, and I’ll start paintin’ the walls with blood,” the intruder said, his voice cold and laced with sick amusement. “ _Your_ blood,” he added after a while, as if to avoid any misunderstandings. He most certainly was serious, so Roshi ceased any movement.

It was then that Bulma noticed the guy’s gun, pointed directly at Goku’s head, and took a better look at him. He was _huge_ – taller than Goku, presumably about 6'4", and built like a combination of a heavyweight boxer and a bodybuilder on some _serious_ steroids. He had thick black hair, unruly but combed back and cut into something that slightly resembled a mullet, but she could see it was long, probably well past his shoulders. As for his clothes… well, he had practically none. Black combat boots and black, tight leather shorts ending just above his knees, red knife leg wrap on his left thigh and brown cartridge belt with a gun holster (now empty) around his hips. For an untrained eye, the dark blue-gray bulletproof vest with golden brown cap sleeves, which clung to his powerful chest, could be mistaken for a close-fitting undershirt of sorts.

Who the fuck dressed like _that_?

And how the _hell_ was he able to sneak up on them??? The photocell was flawless, she did regular check-ups and maintenance, and she double-checked _everything_...

_Damn,_ her head was starting to hurt.

“Wh- what do you want?” Goku rasped, looking at the intruder through half-closed eyes, still unable to get up.

“Nothin’, really,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “The question’s _who_ , but guess I’ve already found him.”

“The _fuck_ are you gibbering about?” Bulma shouted, standing up to her full height, still behind the couch. She knew it was a stupid thing to do, but she just couldn’t sit there stock-still and wait. She felt Gohan moving closer and then clinging to her leg. At least _he_ was smart enough to stay down.

“Same thing goes for you too, bitch,” the stranger hissed, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don’t make me kill my _stepbrother_ before I even have a chance to talk with him.”

If his earlier words weren’t enough to make her go rigid as a board, _that_ part surely was.

“STEPBROTHER???” Krillin and Bulma yelled in unison. Krillin was slowly raising himself on his elbows and looking at Goku, while Roshi’s eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. Gohan hugged Bulma’s leg even tighter, sniffling quietly. The kid was probably too shocked to even cry louder than he did. “But, you’ve never told -” started Krillin.

“ ’Cause I _don’t_!” Goku stood up, still clutching his abdomen, seemingly unaware of the gun following his every movement. “It’s surely a mistake, I don’t know you, I’m an orphan and - ”

“Yes, _we_ are orphans, _sooo_ _nice_ of you to point that out, Kakarot. You may not remember my face, but should at least remember my name, so start usin’ it, shithead.”

“I don’t know any ‘Kakarot’ guy and I surely don’t know your name! Lower that gun and we’ll talk, maybe help in findin’ - ” Goku was hauled up by his collar, his feet barely touching the ground, his and the nameless guy’s foreheads a hair’s breadth away. On the battlefield he could probably try to escape from his grip, but the fellow was strong _and_ pretty nifty – he was holding him with his left hand and his right was still clutching the gun, this time pointed at Bulma. He didn’t want to risk it.

“Listen, I’ve _found_ the one I’m lookin’ for! And it’s _you_ , idiot! Honestly, Kakarot, don’t you get on my nerves or else…” the threat in his voice was evident and at that point Goku knew he _really_ should play it differently.

“I’m… I’m sure we can find common ground,” the guy’s hand wound tighter around Goku’s shirt, but apart from that, he stood perfectly still, “S-sorry, I _really_ don’t know your name and nothing about that ‘Kakarot’ nickname, but...,” again, the hand tightened its hold, “… _please_ , let’s just talk and sort things out,” he finished, panting slightly.

The guy seemed to be looking for any signs of insincerity in Goku’s voice, but, finding none, he just dropped him to the ground.

“…fine,” he snapped angrily. “But if you try _anythin’…_ ”

“Yeah, yeah, we know, you’ll blow our brains out,” said Bulma, earning a dark look from the stranger. She didn’t dare to say anything more - after all, his gun was _still_ pointed at her.

“And ‘Kakarot’ ain’t no _fuckin’_ nickname, ’s a name!” his jaw tightened slightly, eyes roaming around the room and then fixing on Goku. “ _Your_   name, and for some fucking reason everyone seem to be surprised to hear it. Care to tell me _why_?”

“Uhh… It’s the first time...” he slowly got up, trying his best to stand straight. “Look, my name’s Goku, so it’s …”

“Let’s make things clear, young man,” Roshi interjected, looking up at the stranger from his place on the floor. Krillin winced, expecting a violent response from the guy, but he just turned his head slightly to the side. “You’re saying he’s your brother, but how can you be so sure? As far as I know, Goku was found in the woods and took in by my friend some twenty-two or twenty-three years ago. Yes, I can see you’re older than him, but that’s not saying much, you know. Where were you two decades ago? Why find him _now_?”

If there was no gun or fighting involved, Bulma would have probably laughed or started looking for a hidden camera as soon as the guy said ‘stepbrother’, but as it was, she was just thinking _really_ hard about the whole ‘long-lost family’ thing. Yes, she could see the resemblance - they weren’t carbon copies, but their eyes, dark and unruly hair, the shape of their mouths, skin color… Even the way they pronounced certain words was similar, though the guy had a weird accent she couldn’t recognize.

“Don’t ya ‘young man’ me, gramps,” he snapped. “The name’s Raditz.”

Roshi nodded. “As for my - ”

“You wanna proof? I’ll give ya proof,” Raditz replied, immediately drawing another gun from behind his back with his left hand and pointing it at Goku. They fully expected him to shoot, but he just lowered the gun he held in his right hand, applied the safety lock and twirled it around his trigger finger. “Recogni - ” he started, but Goku abruptly cut him off.

“YOU!!” he yelled, pouncing towards Raditz, too furious to think about the possibility of ending up with a bullet between his eyes. But Raditz was once again faster, sending Goku to the ground with one, well-placed kick to his sternum.

He should have recognized the gun earlier, really – they all should. Yes, silver barrels were quite popular and Raditz’s hand was so big that it completely covered the handle, but the shape of the barrel alone should have been enough to ring a bell.

Bulma, Roshi and Krillin were dumbfounded. _No one_ has managed to do such a number on Goku since he was sixteen. And the gun… Maybe that Raditz guy was the one who killed Goku’s grandpa? But then, why he’s been gone for all those years? He could have _easily_ taken Goku with him two decades ago, but he didn’t. Something was _seriously_ amiss. They’ve never found _anything_ about the gun, despite having access to every possible database, both civilian and military. And why they’ve never heard of Raditz? He clearly was well-trained and something in his demeanor told them that he was a soldier, but his accent, his attire and some of his moves were completely… _alien_ to them.

“Be glad you’re still alive, fucker. But I guess you recognize the gun, though don’t know what’s with the sudden outburst,” Raditz sneered at Goku, who was struggling to catch his breath. “ ‘Cause ya still have yours, right?”

“I.. I don’t.. und… ugh..,” Goku spat on the floor a few times and then looked up at Raditz, hoping it was some kind of a sick joke. “The gun? Yes, but -”

“Cut the crap! You talk as if you don’t remember anythin’! Don’t tell me you don’t know _who_ you are! Stop actin’ like a brain-damaged idiot!” this time Raditz nearly pulled the trigger.

“I _don’t_! I don’t remember! I swear, I remember only grandpa Gohan and -”

 “Actually…” Roshi started, looking at Raditz. “Goku suffered a severe concussion as a kid.”

Goku just nodded.

“Oh, now you’re shittin’ me, gramps, so help me - ” he said, the gun in his right hand no longer hanging on his index finger but cocked and pointed at Roshi.

“NO! It’s true!” Bulma shouted. “It had something to do with him falling off the roof or a ladder and he doesn’t remember a thing from before the accident, he was like, two when it happened, so there was not much to forget - ”

“NOT MUCH???” Raditz’s furious yell resounded through the house. “Our people and our _whole history_ is NOT MUCH for ya, stupid _cunt_?” Bulma ducked back behind the couch, meeting Gohan’s frightened gaze and hugging him tightly.

“ _Your_   people?” Roshi asked, baffled.

“Yes, _our_ people. Sons of Iya(*). _Saiya,_ ” he said, his odd accent growing even stronger. “We’re _Saiyan_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(*) Don’t own – Iya is a mythological figure ‘borrowed’ from Lakota mythology. I was in the middle of some serious thinking (yeah…) and just wanted to check if maybe “iya” means something in other language(s), so I just googled it… and found Lakota mythology. For now it’s only a mention, but I’ll definitely explain more in future chapters._   
>  _I hope this doesn’t offend anyone – but if it does, please let me know immediately._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just then, they heard a gunshot, and everything went into slow motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading and leaving kudos! As for the chapter: I probably suck at writing action scenes. And my medical knowledge is… well, limited, though I did some ‘research’ (yup, my friend Google).

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

**CHAPTER 6**

They were left speechless. _Saiya? Saiyan?_ They’ve never heard of such a country, nationality or even an ethnic group! This Raditz guy was surely a lunatic - even if the part about him being Goku’s stepbrother seemed _somewhat_ plausible.

“You… can’t… be serious…” Goku murmured, his eyes wide.

“I _can’t_? And _how_ will you explain your tattoo, huh?” Raditz shot back.

Goku didn’t reply. No one did, because _that_ hit a little bit too close to home.

The guy _knew_ about the tattoo _._

There was still a chance he was just some creepy stalker, a psycho who’s somehow seen Goku without his shirt on - maybe he’s been observing his house and that’s how he found out about the gun…

… _aaand_ made himself an exact replica..?

Okay, so maybe he just somehow found out about Goku’s past and then decided to steal the gun to give him a scare and blackmail him..?

Well…

“Don’t look at me like _that_ , ‘s not my fault you’re all clueless!” he hissed, once again fixing his eyes on Goku. “Five letters on your lower back, down your spine. Black ink. Just like the one _I_  have.”

Goku has never thought too much about the tattoo – he had it as long as he could remember, even if it was a bit _odd_   for such a small kid to have one. Years ago, Bulma tried to decipher its meaning, but the symbols on his back were not a part of any language or even a dialect she knew or was able to find. A complete mystery – just like the gun. Now, however…

“I’m not gonna turn around, I’m not stupid. But” – Raditz moved slightly forward and shot a quick glance at the large, wide mirror on the wall to the left – “I see you have a nice mirror here,” with that he applied the safety lock on the gun he had in his left hand, tucked it into his back pocket and stood at an angle that allowed them to see the reflection of his back in the mirror. Yep, his hair was long, alright.

Then he raised the back of his body armor and all they could do was stare dumbly, their jaws literally hitting the floor.

The tattoo was _identical_.

“So, that’s finally enough for ya?” Raditz asked, adjusting his clothes and returning to his previous stance with his back to the front door, the gun in his right hand still pointed at Roshi.

“I still... don’t understand…” Goku rarely was at loss of words, but he had no idea what could he possibly say after seeing _that_.

“ _Saiya_. Sons of Iya. That’s what the tattoo says. We’re the Proud Sons of Iya (*). _Bejitar’Sa-Iya (**). _The best of the best, the greatest warrior race, the toughest military force in the world” he paused, gritted his teeth and shot Goku a hateful look “and you, little fucker, don’t remember _jack shit_   about our heritage!” his upper lip curled in disgust. “But you can redeem yourself, ya know? Just come with me, join our squad, fight with us and kill with us and you’ll - ”

“Now wait a minute, _bozo_!” Bulma shrieked, Raditz’s words shaking her out of her stupor. “You’re what? And _toughest_? And _kill_   with you? What’s _that_   supposed to mean? You think you have _the_ _right_   to waltz into his life after twenty-some _fucking_ years and tell him to _redeem_   himself??? God, you’re clearly more fucked up in the head than I thought!”

They were sure those words were going to be her last, but no – Raditz just laughed.

“Be glad it’s just me, bitch. If boss were here, you’d be long dead by now,” she clearly had something more to say, and he was _not_ going to let her spew more shit. “But he’s not. And all ya need to know is that I want Kakarot with me. There are things to do ‘n people to kill so - ”

“Forget it!” Goku stood up, his face immediately devoid of all gentleness.

He _hated_ killing. He killed only when he had no choice and even then it saddened him to do so. Yes, he was a soldier, but there were _drivers_ with higher body count. The last war in either their country or on the continent ended some thirty years ago. Since then, the biggest threat they’ve faced was Red Ribbon Army, a group of self-proclaimed soldiers aiming to form an underground rebellion and take over the country. Their leader, Dr. Gero, has managed to escape, probably abroad – they lost track of him, but they were not even sure he was still alive.

“I don’t care about _your_ heritage,” Goku clenched his fists, looking at Raditz with a rare glint of anger in his eyes. “ _Your_! Not mine! So just go, ‘cause we have _nothing_ to talk about!”

“Nah, that ain’t true. Let’s talk about your _lovely_ wifey, ChiChi’s her -”

“MOMMY! D-don’t… hurt… my mommy!” cried Gohan, suddenly jumping out from behind the couch, attempting to run to his father, but Bulma caught him last-minute. 

At the same time Goku’s fist reached Raditz’s abdomen. He doubled over and dropped the gun, but his left hand was already reaching to his back pocket, his right instantly striking a similar blow to Goku’s stomach, causing him to almost bend in half and take a few steps back.

_Screw_ the pain _. Screw_   the gun. If anything has happened to ChiChi…

Krillin immediately surged forward towards the abandoned gun, not really minding his bruised back and sore abdomen, noticing from the corner of his eye that Roshi was already close to the commode which held his Beretta.

Just then, they heard a gunshot, and everything went into slow motion.  

Blood spurted from Raditz’s right thigh and he screamed something unintelligible. He lost his balance, falling forward and haphazardly pointing the gun at Goku, the sound of a bullet being fired even more deafening than the previous one, soon followed by Goku’s yelp of pain, Bulma and Gohan’s screams of terror, Roshi’s ‘fuck!’ and Krillin’s desperate ‘GOKU!’. 

Krillin’s fingers clamped around the weapon, but then another gunshot pierced the air, this time hitting Raditz’s outstretched left arm and effectively knocking the gun out from his hand. His body involuntarily jerked, causing his head to hit the floor. He groaned and his eyes rolled back into his head.

It all happened within a few seconds, but to them it felt like an _eternity_.

“All clear, the medics will be here soon,” boomed a familiar, though long unheard voice, and a split second later Piccolo appeared in the doorway, his trusty AK-47 hanging over his shoulder. “Don’t ask, just do your bit,” he added, noticing their startled looks, and leaned on the wall. He seemed to be favoring his left side and his hands were a bit swollen, but that wasn’t exactly the best time for a round of ‘21 questions’.

“Ugh… h-hi, Piccolo…” Goku sent his way a genuine, though faint smile. He wanted to give him a small wave, but he couldn’t - Bulma was already at his side, putting some pressure on his right shoulder and Gohan was tightly hugging his uninjured arm, shaking and crying loudly.

Bulma was too shocked to utter a word so she just nodded stiffly, Krillin immediately mimicking her gesture and then disappearing into the bathroom to find the first aid kit. Apart from Goku, only Roshi decided to speak.

“Corporal Daimao,” he greeted, moving quickly to Raditz’s prone body.

“General officer Roshi,” Piccolo saluted, but said nothing more. He’s never been very talkative and he knew he’ll have some explaining to do as soon as this mayhem is over, so he decided to just stay quiet.

Besides, his head, left arm and every single finger hurt _like a bitch_.

Krillin put the small medical kit near Bulma and looked worriedly at Goku. “Hey, Krillin…,” Goku whispered. “C-call ChiChi, ok? Just to... you know, that she’s s-safe…” He wanted to add _‘and don’t tell her about this mess’_ , but Krillin was faster.

“I know, you’ll tell her yourself,” he said, limping upstairs to find his mobile phone.

Bulma’s mind went blank. She took an extended first aid course ten years ago, as soon as she was enrolled into Roshi’s school, treating gunshot injuries included. She’s often visited the medical wing to help the nurses and doctors. She’s read tons of medical books and magazines. She’s seen many different wounds, but she’s never been caught in the middle of an _actual_ shooting.

‘ _Focus, Bulma’_ she chastised herself and fixed her gaze on her friend, her fingers still on the wound. Goku was a little pale, had some bruises and scrapes and maybe a cracked rib or two, but he was still conscious. As for his shoulder… There was no heavy bleeding and the area wasn’t swelling rapidly, so this could mean it was only a soft tissue injury. She really hoped…

“He’ll be fine,” Roshi said, as if reading her mind. “Keep doing that” he motioned for her to continue putting pressure “and then clean the wound as much as you can”. That’s when she realized that Roshi has somehow managed to turn Raditz onto his side and elevate the injured leg, putting it on his shoulder and using his own worn-out belt as a tourniquet. And that there was something… Oh, hell.

Blood. More than she’s _ever_ seen in her life.

She immediately turned away, focusing on opening the first aid kit and cleaning the wound. Fortunately, Gohan has cried himself to sleep and was curled up beside his father, his small head resting on Goku’s massive thigh.

“Probably main artery. The arm is in a better shape, but I’m not really sure he’ll make it,” Roshi said, his voice serious. “I’d rather not do that, but….” he carefully removed the knife wrap from Raditz’s left thigh. “Bulma, help me with the pockets.”

_‘What could possibly be hidden in his pockets?’_ she thought briefly. These pants were _painfully_   tight. She doubted she’d find an ID – or anything, really –  but she was aware of the familiar, chopping sound of approaching helicopters, most certainly the medical team that Piccolo was talking about.

She knew she had no choice.

“What the…” she breathed, her small fingers pulling something out of Raditz’s back pocket. It looked like a simple, red armband, though she immediately noticed the miniature screen. “A watch..?” she said to no one in particular. She fiddled with the strange object for a while, then clenched it in her fist and went back to Goku’s side.

Seconds later, six medical officers entered the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) Don’t own – ‘borrowed’ from Lakota mythology.
> 
> (**) Yep, I know – I butchered the Japanese words: „Bejita” and “Saiya-jin”... Though I kinda like the final result ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there were times when Bulma couldn’t help but to quote a line from one of the movies she’d seen as a teenager: _‘Money isn’t everything, but everything without money ain’t worth a fuck (*)’._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments! The grammar is probably messed up, but...

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

**CHAPTER 7**

Raditz had been taken to South City Military Ward, a high-security hospital designed specifically for the most dangerous suspects and prisoners, but for Roshi that was _not_ _quite_ enough. He had already marked Raditz’s case as ‘classified - top secret’ and contacted South City’s Chief Medical Officer, asking for additional guards - although the staff at South City has always been discreet and one hundred percent professional, Roshi did not want to risk _anything_ when it came to dealing with Raditz. Even if he died, he would be the best-guarded corpse across the whole country.

Meanwhile, the three remaining medical officers had finished examining Goku and were getting him ready for the flight to the hospital, putting him on the stretcher in a seated position and carefully placing Gohan back on his lap. The child was still out cold, and Roshi smiled lightly as he remembered that Goku used to deal with certain stressful situations in a similar fashion – fear, adrenaline rush, anger and then psychical and physical exhaustion.

One of the doctors turned towards Piccolo and Krillin. “We’re taking him to the 1st Military, you going with him?”

Piccolo shook his head no, but Krillin gave a short nod.

“I could probably use some painkillers. Besides, there’s no way Goku’s gonna go there alone” he laughed nervously and glanced at Gohan “and someone should stay with his kid while you’ll be patching him up.”

Moments later they were gone, and Bulma felt the urge to _scream_. Scream and run away as fast and as far as she could, because there was _no way_ she’d stay here any longer, because it was _not_ safe and _not_ wise and the floor was caked in blood, and there was this horrible, _horrible_ stench of danger and death in the air…

“Bulma! Hey, calm down!” Roshi’s voice snapped her back to reality, and she realized she was starting to hyperventilate. “Have a glass of water, I’ll clean up and then we’ll hit the road,” he assured her, taking off his bloody latex gloves, then replacing them with another pair and quickly picking up both abandoned guns. True, Krillin had touched one of them, but he didn’t want to make things even more complicated by adding his fingerprints to the collection.

Bulma obeyed, though drinking water wasn’t the first thing she did after entering the kitchen. She needed a cigarette, and she needed it _bad_. Fortunately, her pack was still on the counter. One… two… three deep drags later, she was able to think more clearly.

She was _not_ a coward, she had just panicked a bit. They were doing _fine_ \- scared, shocked, beaten-up or wounded, but _alive_. ChiChi was okay, blissfully unaware and safe - her father had taken her shopping this morning and they were yet to return to Mt. Paozu. Bulma had a sneaking suspicion that Krillin texted Goku’s father-in-law as soon as he had finished talking with ChiChi – as a former police officer, Gyumao could probably handle the news about _‘a little incident’_ better than, for example, her parents. To be honest, it would be better for _everyone_ to stay away from Mt. Paozu and Lake Kame for some time – who knew how many other psycho’s like Raditz were running free? Who the _fuck_ was he, anyway? A _Saiyan_? Freaking nonsense… And what about that ‘boss’ guy he had mentioned? And the armband? The gun, the tattoo? And her once _flawless_ photocell?

Damn, she really hoped that ‘hitting the road’ meant going to West City’s 1st Military Hospital, which was just a few blocks away from her home. Her sweet, sweet home, with her couch, her blanket, hot chocolate and…

Yamcha. Where the _hell_ was Yamcha?

\---

It turned out that Bulma’s hopes were fulfilled. The plan was simple: reach the nearest village, leave the cars, take Roshi’s Cessna from the small and almost unused military airport and fly to West City. Goku had a habit of leaving his keys on the fridge, so - after making sure there were no bombs planted under the vehicles - they went to the airport separately, Bulma and Roshi in their respective cars and Piccolo in Goku’s bright _orange_ Dodge. He’s always preferred motorcycles to cars, but he’d decided to park his two-wheeler in Roshi’s garage - driving a car with busted fingers was definitely easier and much less painful.

Taking the plane allowed them to save two or three hours and finally have the opportunity to talk about the whole situation. As soon as they took off, Piccolo went straight to the point: he had been sitting in the woods, about 3 miles from Lake Kame, enjoying the silence and planning to do some hunting, when he noticed a movement in the bushes. He immediately reached for his gun, but the next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, Raditz holding his legs down with his weight and crushing his fingers with his large fists. He toyed with Piccolo for a moment, wrenching his left arm, breaking his fingers and asking about _‘fuckin’ Kakarot’_ , but apparently got bored, so he punched Piccolo’s lights out. Piccolo had no idea how long he had been unconscious, but he suspected that it was long enough to allow Radtiz to reach Lake Kame, so he called the medical team from his parent military unit, though without reinforcements, not wanting to attract _too_ much attention. Surprisingly, his rifle and motorcycle were in the exact same place that he had left them, so he headed towards the island. He had intended to kill Raditz on the spot or at least take him down with just one shot, but he was not able to aim correctly because of his injured fingers and left arm.

Roshi nodded, engaged an autopilot mode and turned towards Piccolo. “You did the right thing. Thank you, Corporal,” he saluted and Piccolo’s right hand immediately moved up to his temple in response. Yes, he was quite an asshole, a hardened ex-mercenary for the previous government and they haven’t seen him for six years, but they knew he’s been keeping in touch with Goku. Ever since Goku won with him in the Military Martial Arts Tournament, Piccolo’s attitude has somehow changed from _‘I hate you and I’d like to choke you ’_ to _‘I don’t think I like you, but I respect you’_. And in Goku’s opinion, Piccolo was ‘ _a_ _great fellow_ ’ and ‘ _superb hunting partner’_ , so…

“Umm…,” Bulma started, shooting a quick glance at Piccolo’s hands. “I can bandage your fingers if you want.”

He shrugged. “They’ll do something at the hospital. I’ve already set the broken bones, so there’s not much left to do.”

She winced and involuntarily whispered _‘ouch’_ \- she had no idea _why_ didn’t he go to the hospital with Goku and Krillin and _how_ was he even able to drive or remain so calm and collected without any painkillers, but she didn’t dare to question his motives.

“I think Gero’s the one behind this whole mess,” Roshi said, his expression serious. “No one’s ever found an evidence that he’s dead, and you remember what he did to the majority of Red Ribbon, right?” Bulma nodded, but Piccolo gave him a quizzical look. „Brainwashing. Through drugs, torture, electro-stimulation – you name it, he did it. And believe me, Gero’s men were the worst psycho’s I’ve ever seen.”

“So you think that’s the case with Raditz?” Piccolo inquired.

“Yes – if ‘Raditz’ is even his _real_ name. Gero knows _a lot_ about us, and even more about Goku. He’d  probably fed the guy nonsense about another race, nationality or whatever, and about him and Goku being relatives, and then used his knowledge to make things even more believable – the tattoo, the gun, everything.”

They were silent for a while, pondering on his words.

“It seems a little… you know, _too_ far-fetched,” Bulma bit her lower lip and started fiddling with a pack of cigarettes. “I can agree with the tattoo thing, but the gun? And what about the resemblance? Besides, If he’d wanted to hunt Goku or us down, why didn’t he send a whole bunch of whackos? Like, the second Red Ribbon Army? And if he’d wanted to manipulate Goku by playing ‘the long-lost stepbrother’ card… Ugh… Let’s just say that sending a guy to barge into his friend’s house with two guns and a knife _and_ ordering him to go on a rampage and threaten his family isn’t the best way to do that,” she finished, noticing from the corner of her eye that Piccolo nodded his head in approval.

Roshi started stroking his beard, just like he always did when he was deep in thought. “Yes, yes… I understand…,” he turned towards the controls. “But I still think it’s a diversion, that he wants us to focus on Goku’s past and let our guard down,” he sighed and put on the aviation headset. “For now, let’s prepare for the landing.”

\---

“Krills, we’ve just landed near the hospital, everything okay?” Bulma asked, her phone squeezed between her left ear and shoulder, a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, both hands shoved deep into her large handbag. She _had to_ find a lighter.

_“Yep, we’re on the second floor. Goku’s fine, though still in the treatment room, and Gohan’s with me in the hall, eating some junk food from the vending machine.”_

She chuckled. “I’ll be there in a few, but first…” she paused, finally fishing out the desired object with her fingers, lighting up the cigarette and taking a long drag. “Yeah, sweet nicotine.”

_“Huh, sure, see you,”_ with that, Krillin ended the call, and she put the phone back into her bag. Roshi was still in the plane, probably talking with flight control, but Piccolo was nowhere to be found, so she supposed he went straight to the hospital to _finally_ receive some kind of medical care.

Ten minutes later they joined Krillin and Gohan, waiting patiently for the doctors to finish taking care of Goku’s wound. Goku had to be anaesthetized so they could remove the bullet, but the injury itself wasn’t that bad – no joint, nerve or vascular damage, with minimal soft-tissue disruption. Thanks to Bulma and her father’s decision to fund R&D for new medicines and innovations for the medical market, their country had the most advanced health care system in the world, so Goku’s recovery would take probably about two or three weeks.

Yes, there were times when Bulma couldn’t help but to quote a line from one of the movies she’d seen as a teenager: _‘Money isn’t everything, but everything without money ain’t worth a fuck (*)’._

Suddenly, she felt a small hand clamping around her fingers. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was, but she did that anyway, crouching in front of Gohan so she was at his eye level. “Hi, champ, how’s it going?” she smiled.

“It’s fine now, Auntie. Daddy’s going to be okay soon. And the doctors and nurses here are really nice, they allowed me to sit in the X-Ray technician’s room, you know?” he gave her a boyish smile, and it once again reminded her that the kid was _only_ six years old. She had to ask Krillin if any of the doctors had taken that into account – she didn’t want Gohan to end up with PTSD, though if he was anything like Goku, he’d probably be able to manage without psychological assistance.

“Wow, that’s cool, I’ve heard they have the best equipment in town,” she replied and stood up, still looking at Gohan. “I’m going to get some hot chocolate, you interested?” he nodded eagerly. “So, let’s go. Krills, Prof” - Roshi smiled upon hearing his nickname from his teaching days -  “anything for you?” They both shook their heads no, so she lightly squeezed Gohan’s hand and led him through the hall and into the elevator.

Seconds later they were on the ground floor, just a few steps from the cafeteria, when they (and probably _everyone_ in a ten-mile radius) heard a loud “BUGGER OFF!” coming from the direction of the staircase, soon followed by an unmistakable _smack_ of a fist connecting with someone’s face and then an even louder “KEEP YOUR _FUCKING_ DIRTY HANDS OFF OF ME, YOU DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT!” She quickly moved towards the nearby wall, keeping Gohan’s ears covered with her hands. She did it as soon as she heard the first profanity, though she doubted it had the desired effect. She had to admit - the guy had some lungs on him, whoever he was, and _damn_ , he seemed to be _royally_ pissed ...

She fully expected him to appear in the lobby and continue his yelling, but she noticed that the door to the staircase was already pushed open and surrounded by the guards, one of them helping a young doctor up from the floor and shouting something along the lines of ‘bloody sickos’ and ‘huh, the dude was fast’.

She turned her gaze towards Gohan - he was clearly appalled by the guy’s vocabulary, his expression so similar to ChiChi’s whenever someone swore in front of her, that Bulma had to suppress a laugh. “Ugh, come on, Gohan, that was just some _very_ angry fellow, and we’ve had enough of angry fellows for today.”

“And rude! You think he’s a tourist? He talked a bit funny,” she froze, but Gohan didn’t seem to notice. “You know, Mom would definitely be mad at him for swearing so loudly in public.”

“Huh? Oh- yes… yes, she would. Let’s go, kiddo,” she forced a smile and gently tugged on his hand. She hoped she was wrong, but the lump forming in her throat told her otherwise. The guy had a slight, though still distinguishable accent, and when he said ‘fucking’…

 

…he sounded _just like_ Raditz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(*) Don’t own – that’s an actual quote from a Polish comedy “Pieniądze to nie wszystko” (“Money Is Not Everything”) by Juliusz Machulski. I just translated it to English, though it’s not a literal translation. If I translated literally, it would be “Money isn’t everything, but everything without money is (a) dick” - yup, sounds strange :) In Polish the word ‘dick’ can also mean ‘nothing’, and that’s the way it’s used in the movie, so I went for ‘ain’t worth a fuck’._


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She knew she would eventually have to talk with Roshi, but she didn't want to do that now - he seemed to be quite sure that it was all Gero’s doing, and she called it _‘a little too far-fetched’_... Yet, here she was, presenting her own paranoid conspiracy theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you very, very much for reading and leaving kudos and comments! :)  
> I'm not really happy that it took me so long to update, but the past week has been craaazy as hell.

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 8**

The hot chocolate has lost its charm - try as she might, Bulma couldn’t force herself to take a sip from her cup. _‘Great, now I’m paranoid’_ she thought to herself, shaking her head lightly. For God’s sake, she was the _only one_ who’d cowered against a wall – the others in the lobby were unfazed and the whole situation drew only a few curious and/or surprised glances. She still had to be disturbed by the events that took place on the island – there was no other explanation to why she'd acted like a _sissy_.

But, on the other hand… They couldn’t risk being caught off-guard. If the guy was somehow related to Raditz (and she just _knew_ he was), they had to keep their eyes wide open. Even if ‘Mr-Pissed-Off’ has charged into this hospital completely by chance, he could have seen them – she wouldn’t be surprised if he knew _exactly_ how they looked like… Of course, if he’d wanted to kill them, they would already be dead, no doubt about it – dead as a freaking doornail, cold and unmoving and…

…okay, maybe she _was_ exaggerating a bit, but at that point she considered herself excused.

Gohan was busy tucking away his (quite decently looking) mashed potatoes with meat and salad. ChiChi would skin them all alive if she knew _what_ the boy had eaten before, and it would be even worse if it came out that he hadn’t had any _normal_ meal since breakfast… Hence the idea to buy him dinner. It was a miracle that the kid was still eager to eat regular food after he’d stuffed himself with chocolate bars and pretzels, but she knew he had his father’s appetite – and the same _freakishly_ high metabolism.

Bulma sighed, pulled out her phone and quickly typed a message to Yamcha - a short and simple _‘everything all right?’_ , but she just couldn't come up with anything else. She slid the small device back into the pocket of her jeans and put a lid on her cup, then looked at Gohan and his already empty plate. Yeah, definitely his father’s son, though with _much better_ table manners – the floor around him was clean, the tabletop was clean… hell, even his face, hands _and_ clothes were clean!

“Ready to come back upstairs?” she asked the child, trying her best to sound casual.

“Yes Auntie, thanks for dinner,” he smiled. “Do you think dad is already awake?”

“Mmm, that’s possible,” she got up, motioning Gohan to do the same. “Let’s return your plate and find out.”

\---

Krillin whistled quietly. “Huh, it’s a good thing you’ve left your bike,” he said, looking at Piccolo’s immobilized left arm and heavily bandaged fingers - or was that a cast? He wondered if –

“Yes, four broken, two of the left and two of the right hand. Six just badly bruised,” Piccolo informed flatly and sat next to the dumbfounded man. “Where’s Son and General Roshi?”

“Ugh… huh, yeah, w-was wondering if they’re broken…,” Krillin stuttered out, still not quite sure _how_ Piccolo had guessed what he’d been thinking about. Besides, even _talking_ with Piccolo was a pretty weird experience itself. “Room 213B,” he replied, pointing at the third door to his right. “They’re waking Goku up and Roshi’s there as… huh, well… backup, I guess?” - he smiled lightly at Piccolo’s puzzled expression. “Let’s just say Goku isn’t a huge fan of IV’s sticking out of his arms.”

Piccolo’s eyes widened a bit, but he decided to refrain from any comments, so he just nodded. “It’s not a strictly military hospital, is it?” he asked after a while.

“No, they’ve always had a whole wing and a clinic for civilians. Why?”

“Thought so. Some guy had rearranged my doctor’s jaw in the staircase and then ran away, so I’m currently waiting for someone else to show up and finish filling out my papers,” he sighed and shook his head. “Honestly, they should think about hiring better security guards.”

“Well, there are fancy, high-tech body scanners at every entrance, and I’m sure you’ve seen the cameras,” Krillin said, directing his gaze upwards and then looking back at Piccolo, “but they didn’t want this place to look like a freaking fortress. You know, with armed soldiers as security and stuff like that – especially because they have one of the best maternity units in the country.”

Piccolo didn’t look thoroughly convinced, but he shrugged and simply said, “I guess I see the point.” A few minutes passed in silence, though Krillin was racking his brains to find a new conversation topic.

“Where’s Gohan and the Briefs girl?” Piccolo asked suddenly, causing Krillin to wince at ‘the Briefs girl’ part – Bulma _definitely_ wouldn’t be happy to hear this. He was about to reply, but at that moment they heard a distinctive _‘ding’_ and the elevator door slid open, Bulma and Gohan walking hand in hand towards them.

“Goku’s fine, Roshi’s with him. We’ll go see him in a while,” Krillin explained, anticipating their question.

Bulma breathed a sigh of relief and Gohan jumped and clapped his hands a few times, but he quickly composed himself, looked at Piccolo and bowed – _bowed!_ – to him.

“Good afternoon Mr. Corporal Piccolo, Sir,” his voice was full of genuine respect, and Krillin and Bulma were once again left stunned by his actions. “I am sorry that I was not able to properly greet you earlier. Thank you for helping us, Sir,” he added, standing ramrod straight. “I hope you get well soon, Sir.”

The best part was that Piccolo actually looked _embarrassed_ , and Bulma could swear she saw a hint of a blush on his cheeks. _‘Huh, who would have thought…’_

“…yeah, yeah. No sweat, Gohan. But” - Piccolo narrowed his eyes and glanced at the child - “for crying out loud, _don’t_ call me _‘Mr. Corporal Sir’_ … I’ve already told you it sounds ridiculous.”

Gohan smiled broadly, completely unfazed by Piccolo’s somewhat wry face, “Okay, Mr. Piccolo,” he said, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet, apparently ready to act and sound like a regular six-year-old.

“Soo…” Bulma started, setting her not-so-hot chocolate on a nearby table and stuffing her hands into her back pockets, “…maybe Gohan could go to Goku, and we’ll join them in a moment..?” she sent Krillin a knowing look, hoping he’d connect the dots.

He did.

“Mhm, his room is - ”

That’s when a high-pitched, though definitely _male_ screech echoed from one of the nearby rooms, followed by someone's nervous laugh and Roshi's loud, but light-hearted _'Oh, man up, will you?'._

“…yeah, you know where,” Krillin finished, grinning at them and scratching his bald head. He took Gohan’s hand and quickly guided him towards room 213B.

A short while later he was back, and Bulma finally had the chance to tell them about the whole incident. She knew she would eventually have to talk with Roshi, but she didn't want to do that now - he seemed to be quite sure that it was all Gero’s doing, and she called it _‘a little too far-fetched’..._ Yet, here she was, presenting her own paranoid conspiracy theory.

_Damn_ , she needed a smoke.

„Come on Bulma, maybe you were really just hearing things..?”

“Oh _please_ , you think I’m deaf? Or schizophrenic? I know what I heard – and it was _the same_ accent,” she snapped, and Krillin immediately raised his hands as if saying ‘okay, okay, just don’t bite my head off’. “Less obvious than Raditz’s, but you should’ve heard the way he pronounced ‘fucking’, I’m telling you - a dead giveaway, sounded like ‘fuckhingh’, the ‘kh’ part like a freaking weird, wet growl, or like he was about to spit, or cough out a fur ball or something…”, she paused to take a much needed breath, “…and if you still think I’m making it up, then go ask Gohan – he described the guy’s accent as _funny_ , and I’m sure he’ll be able to give you more details,” she finished, clearly pleased with herself.

Krillin nodded,“So, what do you suggest?”

“Let's watch the video surveillance tapes,” Bulma looked at both men in search for any signs of disapproval, but found none. “I still hope it was just some junkie or a teenage hoodlum, but -”

“You don't really believe it and neither do I,” Piccolo interjected, getting up from his chair. “I'm going to find the unfortunate doctor – I know his jaw is fucked up and he won't be very talkative, but I'll give him my digits, maybe he'll at least write an e-mail.”

“Damn, now that's a good idea! I hadn't even thought of that!” Bulma exclaimed, hitting her forehead with her open palm. “So, guess you'll be sticking around here, umm... uhh... Piccolo?”

He chuckled slightly. “You do realize I've left my rifle on the plane?”

_Oh..._ To be honest, she'd completely forgotten about his gun. And about both of Raditz's guns. And the weird armband thing, the tattoo, the photocell...

She opened her mouth to reply, but Piccolo was gone before she had the chance to do so.

“Huh, he's one weird fellow...” she muttered.

“Yep, but not quite as bad as I thought,” Krillin chimed in, causing her to jump slightly and smack him in the arm. “So, Goku's room?”

“Yes, I really need some of his cheerfulness right n -” Bulma paused, reaching to her pocket. She thought she felt her phone vibrating, and she was right. “Ahh, hell... Yamcha's calling. Sorry, Krills - you go and I'll join you in a while.”

Krillin gave her a reassuring smile, so she took a deep breath and answered the call.

“Hi,” she greeted simply.

“ _Hey. So, what's with the question?”_

Damn, this was going to be even _harder_ than she thought. She could hear it in his voice – he was still huffing and sounded like a miserable, sulking child who had been denied his favorite ice cream. And she _definitely_ didn't feel up to dealing with this right now...

“Oooh, _nothing..._ ” her voice was sickly sweet, but she was almost shaking with barely contained anger.

“ _So why_ – _”_

“ _..._ besides the fact that we almost got _killed_ by some _fucking_ lunatic!”

“ _WHAT? Are you_ – _”_

“You heard me! I fucking almost _died_! And you're fuck knows _where_ , doing fuck knows _what_!” she replied, trying hard to keep her voice down. “It's not something I want to discuss on the phone, Yamcha. Just... just get your ass to West City.”

“ _...are you okay?”_ he asked, serious and genuinely worried.

“Ugh... yes, fine. But Goku got shot in the shoulder, fortunately nothing serious. We're in the hospital and I'd like to finally see him, so _please_ , just come back or I swear...”

“ _Yes... yes, okay, I'll be home in a few hours,”_ \- she sighed with relief - _“but don't lay a guilt trip on me, Bulma – you know it won't work.”_

... aaand now she let her anger go, no longer controlling the volume of her voice.

“You know what? Never mind! Forget I said anything and do whatever _the fuck_ you want! But if you _oh-so-kindly_ decide to _grace us_ with your presence, text me when you're near. Bye,” she ended the call without even waiting for Yamcha's response, perfectly aware of outraged and scornful glances thrown her way.

It's been far to long since she had a smoke, so she headed towards the elevator, completely forgetting that she'd left her beverage on the table.

She was furious.

And hurt – but, first and foremost, _furious._ Yamcha was _never_ there – whether it was to spend time with her or help her with something. True, she's been fully self-sufficient since she turned sixteen and she's always insisted on doing almost everything on her own _('Don't think I won't carry this furniture upstairs! I may be a woman, but I'm not a wimp!')_ but that wasn't the point – though her 'I-can-do-everything-myself' attitude certainly didn't seem to work in her favor.

_'Get a grip! You have bigger things to think about!'_ she berated herself, stepping into the lobby and turning towards the side door which lead to the parking lot. She knew that the Head of Security had his office somewhere near this part of the building, so she decided to fetch the surveillance tapes on her way back.

A few moments later she was outside, relishing every drag of her cigarette, loving the minty but still somewhat bitter taste it left in her mouth. Oh, how bad she needed it... She was sure she would be even a _worse_ loudmouth if she quit smoking – and that's exactly what she said to Yamcha every time he started moaning that she ' _positively reeks of cigarette smoke'_.

Bulma scanned the parking lot in search for some rare or particularly interesting cars – she's always had a weak spot for motorization, and taking photos of said rare or interesting vehicles was one of her favorite pastimes. There was just something... _different_ about seeing them 'live', in most common or unexpected places – not on exhibitions or pictures on the Internet.

A big, white SUV with tinted windows caught her attention. She could see only the right side of the vehicle and she wasn't really able to recognize the brand. She also couldn't take a look at the front or the back of the SUV without being obvious, so she just stayed where she was - the car was turned on, someone was probably sitting inside and _thank you very much_ , she had her fair share of weird encounters today. Instead, she focused on the purr of the engine. It didn't take an expert to recognize that it's been tuned, probably even more than it should, so she immediately started wondering who the _hell_ would need an engine like _that_ in a SUV?

She shrugged and casually took out her phone, pleased with the distance between her vantage point and the car, as it allowed to take a clear photo and she didn't have to contort herself into suspicious or awkward poses. She was intrigued by the vehicle – it seemed a bit exotic, maybe it had been imported? She just _had to_ check it later.

As Bulma was taking the last shot, the driver revved the engine up and the car shot forward, accompanied by a loud screech of tires. Startled, she dropped her phone and unfinished cigarette to the ground. She bent down to pick them up, hurriedly looking around to find the back cover of her phone and muttering _'Damned shit, always falls off'_ , when the tires screeched again and the car came to an abrupt halt, only to drive away a second later. She straightened up, but caught only a glimpse of the closing, gull-wing front passenger door.

She chuckled and shook her head. _'Huh, fancy... Probably some eccentric fat cat going through a midlife crisis,'_ she thought, butted her cigarette in the ashtray, snapped the cover of her phone back into place and headed towards the hospital.

It's been a long day so far, but Bulma had a feeling that it was _not_ going to end as fast and as good as she wanted it to end.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Roshi, it was just another proof of Gero's involvement.  
> For Bulma, it meant that she'd have to break some rules (and passwords) while trying to dig up the information they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments! :) As for this chapter: some questions still remain unanswered, though we're definitely getting closer... (hmm, next chapter, probably..?).  
> I apologise for any spelling and/or grammar mistakes - I do my best, but I know my English is far from perfect.

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 9**

Goku was doing fine, though he was still a bit light-headed after the narcosis, so after two or three hours they decided to let him sleep it off. Besides, he'd finally mustered up the courage to tell his wife what was going on, and listening to ChiChi's panicked screams didn't exactly help matters. Bulma was standing a good 4 feet from Goku's bed while he talked with ChiChi on the phone, and her ears were _still_ ringing, so she could only imagine how bad it must have been for him.

Having said their goodbyes, they left Goku's room and headed towards the nearby airport to collect their belongings. The sky was clouded, therefore Roshi decided to leave his Cessna for the night and come back in the morning to fly to Capsule Corp.'s airdrome. The hospital was pretty close to both Bulma's and her parent's house, but they had no intention of catching a cab or going there by foot, so Bulma called her father and asked him to send one of the company's vans to pick them up, a cargo jet to transport their cars back to West City and a chopper to bring ChiChi to Goku as fast as possible. She also told him she'd be taking a few weeks off from work to focus on sorting out _'some important things_ ', as she cautiously put it. She didn't really go into a lot of detail _('Well, yeah, the hospital... uhm...yes, Goku had a little accident... no, no, he's okay')_ , but her father has never been the one to ask too much questions – he knew she would tell him everything in her own time.

They weren't surprised that Piccolo had been waiting for them near the airport fence, though Roshi and Krillin let out a short laugh and Bulma snorted at the sight of bandages loosely hanging from Piccolo's right wrist, his swollen and bruised thumb and index finger no longer wrapped, but stiffly clenched around a lit cigarette.

“What?” he asked, his voice deep and harsh, but holding a hint of amusement. “These two are not broken, so it's not like I had to smash the cast against the pavement.” The corner of his mouth was slightly turned up, and that was probably the closest thing to a smile he could muster.

Roshi, Krillin and Gohan chuckled and went towards the plane, but Bulma stopped and rolled her eyes, “Yeah, yeah, I know – tough guys don't care about busted fingers,” she grinned and started rummaging through her bag, but then she heard Piccolo clear his throat and when she looked up, she saw a cigarette case in his fingers, the almost finished cigarette now hanging from his lips.

“Want one?”

 _'Huh, maybe he really isn't that bad'_ she thought and nodded, carefully taking the box and opening it. “Woow, hand-rolled! I hadn't had one in _years_!” she exclaimed, pulled out one cigarette, sniffed it and then threw her head back humming quietly and pulling out a lighter from her pocket.

Piccolo snorted at her antics, but didn't say anything.

She took a long drag, breathed the smoke out through her nose and coughed “ _Daaamn,_ that's some strong shit! But the taste's freaking _great_!” she inhaled and exhaled again, this time without coughing. “You want your bike back? I have spare keys to Roshi's, so I can -”

“No need, I won't be using it for a while,” he replied, putting the cigarette case into his back pocket, apparently unaffected by the state of his injured fingers. “What about the tapes?”

Bulma tilted her chin up, a self-satisfied smile on her face, “I have them in my purse. They know me here - my last name aside, I graduated from Roshi's military academy, _and_ I'm one of his most trusted co-workers.”

It was his turn to roll his eyes, “I'll get my rifle from the plane.”

She nodded and took out her phone to call her mom. Her house was a bit closer to the hospital so she invited ChiChi and Gohan to stay with her (and with Yamcha – _if_ he decided to show up), but Krillin, Piccolo and Roshi would probably be more comfortable at her parent's, seeing as their house (more like mansion, really...) was six or seven times bigger than her own.

She thought about coming back to her parents for the duration of her friends stay, but decided to wait with that decision until Goku leaves the hospital – she didn't want ChiChi and Gohan to feel awkward. Besides, their houses were within a few minutes' drive from each other, so it's not like she couldn't go there at any hour she wished or ask the whole band to visit her.

Bulma sighed, butted the cigarette and massaged her temples. So many questions... But, come hell or high water, she just _had to_ find the answers.

\---

At 7 PM they were sitting comfortably in Bulma's parents living room, resting after a _huge_ supper and almost equally big dessert, drinking tea (Roshi and Krillin), coffee (Bulma) and water (Piccolo and Gohan). Bulma knew it would end this way from the moment she'd informed her mother that they were going to have guests – appetizers, three-course supper, two kinds of shortbread, three kinds of muffins, a shitload of fruits and a whole battery of drinks.

Uh-huh, her mom has always been _a bit_ on the overkill side when it came to preparing meals.

Bulma chuckled quietly as she remembered her mother's horrified expression when she'd learned that Piccolo _doesn't eat meat._ To be honest, she was quite shocked herself – he _hunted_ , for crying out loud, so where did this whole not-eating-meat thing come from? And what did he do with his kills? Maybe he sold them? Or gave them to Goku?

Yeah, the latter was _certainly_ possible.

It turned out that in Piccolo's native country, animals were considered sacred beings, and no countryman was worthy enough to eat them - but offering the meat as a ritual sacrifice to their deity or giving it to others as a token of respect _(Ha! She just_ knew _it!)_ was not only allowed, but highly encouraged by the priests. Roshi had even asked Piccolo to tell him something more about his people's rituals, but he quickly added that it could wait for a more peaceful time.

A few minutes later Krillin carried a dozing off Gohan to a nearby guest room and they moved to Bulma's office to have some more privacy. She didn't want her parents to know anything yet, so she was glad that she decided to leave the room intact even after moving out. It wasn't like her parents _needed_ it for anything – they had plenty of other rooms, most of them unused.

Somewhere along the way she managed to talk with Roshi about the guy from the staircase. He was reluctant to fully follow her line of thinking, though she could tell he didn't exactly brush it off, either. At that point she was just happy to unburden herself – somehow, keeping anything from Roshi has never sat well with her.

Keeping her parents in the dark was even harder, but it was just too early. They had to find something more... substantive, and this meeting was the first baby step towards sorting this damned shitstorm out.

Bulma has promised ChiChi that she'd pick her up from the hospital, so they didn't really have much time – just enough for a quick summary of the things they already knew.

Firstly, Raditz was alive, though in a critical condition – he lost a huge amount of muscle, had some serious bone fracture and vascular damage. The doctors have decided to put him into a medically induced coma, but at that point the prognosis wasn't good. On top of that, they weren't able to find even a slightest mention of the guy in _any_ medical database – and they've tried everything: blood samples, fingerprints, DNA, dental x-rays...

For Roshi, it was just another proof of Gero's involvement.

For Bulma, it meant that she'd have to break some rules (and passwords) while trying to dig up the information they needed.

Secondly, they had Radtz's armband, his knife and two guns (one of which was strikingly similar to Goku's). Then there was also the mysterious tattoo...

Thirdly, they had the surveillance tapes. Bulma wasn't really sure whether the Head of Security had given her the recordings from every camera in the hospital, or only the cameras pointed at the staircases _,_ but she knew she'd be able to gain access to the whole material if needed.

They agreed to call it a day and meet tomorrow, well-rested and fully focused, though Bulma wanted to take the armband and tapes home, _'just in case she couldn't sleep and wanted to occupy her mind with something'_.

She put the armband in her bag, leaving the weapons in Roshi's care. She said goodnight to her friends and parents, carried a still sleeping Gohan to her car and was about to call ChiChi that she's on her way, but...

“You need anything?” she asked dryly, clutching the phone with her left hand, her right fumbling with the keys. “Make it fast.”

“ _Oh, come on, baby cakes... Don't be mad, I just...”_

 _Baby cakes._ Ugh...

She sighed, no longer having the strength to argue with him, “Yamcha, I've had a _hellish_ day. I still have to pick ChiChi up from the hospital and prepare a room for her and Gohan, because they're staying at our place, so - ”

“ _Yes, yes, I understand. Go home, I'll call ChiChi and pick her up. 1 st Military?”_

Huh, she honestly didn't expect that, but her reply was swift - almost automatic, “Yeah. Thanks. See you.”

“ _See you home, Bulma,”_ Yamcha murmured, his voice tender, and she felt a pang of guilt for lashing out at him earlier.

Still... maybe it wasn't exactly...

Maybe it was a mix of guilt and regret? And not really for lashing out, but for the fact that she wanted his words to have the same effect on her as they used to...

 

...but they didn't.

_\---_

Two hours later ChiChi and Gohan were sound asleep in one of the guest rooms and the only light in the house was coming from Bulma and Yamcha's bedroom.

“...I still think you should call the police.”

“Oh, come on! It's not their business! I know _you_ quit the army”, she scoffed, “but you should at least remember who takes over the case when -”

Yamcha cut her off, “No need to be so snappy, Bulma. I remember, but that doesn't mean that you can't cooperate with the police, you know?”

“Ugh...,” she took a long drag on her cigarette. “Yes, maybe. But definitely not now, so just drop it. Roshi wouldn't want to hear that, either.”

“Fine. But”, he cracked his knuckles, “I'll go with you tomorrow. I want to be up-to-date with everything, and I should probably talk with Krillin about doing some training.”

“Wow, you mean, like... something _more_ than your usual training?” Bulma asked, surprised.

“Pff, of course! I'm not...,” he paused, looked to the side for a moment, then focused back on her face, “...not really training so hard as I used to.”

 _'Oh, please, tell me something I don't already know...'_ she thought. To her, it was obvious. While he was still well-built, strong and generally in a good shape (he had to – after all, he was a _professional_ baseball player), he'd definitely lost some of muscle mass and his body was no longer so firm. He even walked differently, his posture less confident than before, his steps lacking the characteristic... _airiness,_ that she's always associated with martial artists. It didn't make him less attractive, but it definitely made her wonder even more about the _real_ purpose of his weekend excursions.

Was she _truly_ so bitchy? Was he running away from _her_? Or maybe...

“Hey, Bulma!” she jumped slightly, startled by the sound of his voice. “You listening to me?”

“Uhh, yeah, sure,” she shook her head, as if to get rid of her thoughts. “Sorry, Yamcha. I'm really tired,” she smiled faintly, got up from the armchair and butted her cigarette. “I'm going to bed.”

“So am I, baby cakes,” he cooed. “You deserve a good night's sleep. And in the morning...”

_Baby cakes..._

“Yes, Yamcha, _in the morning_ ,” she replied, coming closer to him and ruffling is hair. “Now I just want to sleep.”

He nodded and squeezed her hand, “I know. Let's go.”

\---

The morning came fast. As far as Bulma was concerned, a little _too_ fast. She knew she had a _hell of a lot of work_ to do, but she was also aware of Yamcha's hands roaming around her body. She held back the urge to roll her eyes – yes, she could use some _stress relief_ , but she wasn't sure if...

Never mind - she should probably just go with the flow, because: a) her 'no' could cause Yamcha to be cranky, and she didn't want that; b) getting up without having sex meant no sex for the rest of the day (and night, since Bulma planned to pull an all-nighter to push the investigation forward); c) maybe a quick roll in the hay could help her relax a little..?

 _'Thank God my fingers are intact...',_ she thought and turned to face Yamcha.

A few minutes later she found herself on top of him – a position they hadn't tried in a while, and she thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to make herself come. She concentrated and completely tuned Yamcha out, burying her face into the pillow next to his shoulder.

Yeah, she was getting close... just to rub her clit against his pelvis a few more times and she'd -

“Whoa!” Yamcha's strangled gasp brought her out of her trance. His hands immediately grabbed her hips and lifted her off of him.

_Oh, hell..._

“The fuck, Yamcha!? You know I'm off the pill!” she screamed, enraged. She was mad at him, but also at herself. Damn, she should've known better... “We shouldn't even start without a condom! Oh fuck, why did I ever agree to this... And if you knew you were going to - ”

“Hey, calm down! Why the panic?”

She shot a quick glance at Yamcha's stomach, his abs glistening with pre-cum, his right hand tightly wrapped around the base of his cock.

“ _Why_??? That's fucking _why_!” she pointed at his stomach. “I _don't want_ kids!”

Huh, did she really just say that out loud? Yes, she did.

And then it hit her. She _really_ didn't want kids.

_At least not with..._

“Naaah, relax, it's not like I blew my load, right? Besides, we're adults, Bulma. We've been together for ten years, and we definitely can afford a kid!”

He was right, but...

“No!” she shouted, immediately alarmed by the firm tone of her own voice. _'That was_ really _smooth...'_ She cleared her throat. “I just... I don't want kids... _yet_. It's not the right moment. You know, with some of my hormones messed up, and now this whole shit with Goku's so-called step brother...” she added lamely, hoping that he wouldn't notice that it wasn't the whole truth.

_… not with Yamcha._

Having a kid with him would mean that he'd _always_ be around – even if they split up. And _not only_ as her best friend / ex-boyfriend / the kid's father. They couldn't be forced to get married (and she was sure as hell that she _wouldn't_ marry him just _'for the sake of the child'_ ), but he would still try to drag her to the altar, to be with her. He wouldn't be a bad father – quite the opposite, actually, but that wasn't the case. He was just the kind of guy who needed a... _convenient_ relationship. And she knew he wouldn't let her go, if for no other reason than the familiarity between them.

And if she decided to date other men..? Oh God, he would sulk, throw angry and wounded looks her way, try to win her back, pursue her like a sick puppy... just because they had a kid together. She couldn't imagine that. She _didn't want_ that.

“Hey, Earth to Bulma!”

She looked at him, ready to apologize for spacing out, but his hand was already in her hair, directing her head towards his stomach.

 _'Huh, what a change...'_ she thought. For some reason, he wanted to do something more than just their usual 'roll over, put it in, get it over with' routine – she should be happy and excited, but she wasn't. Her arousal vanished as soon as she started thinking about getting pregnant.

Well, she could always pretend. Nothing new here, really. She did as Yamcha wanted, licking the pre-cum off his abs and sucking his cock for a few minutes, and then she lay on her stomach, waiting for him. He moved and his fingers grabbed her ass, but she stopped him.

“Ooooh, no you don't, mister! Don't even _think_ about it!”

“What now? You cleaned me, right?”

“No! _No way._ The condom,” she pointed her finger at the nightstand. “ _Now.”_

Yamcha grimaced, “Maaan, you sure like to change your mind... A few years ago you weren't so opposed to having kids, you know?”

She was tempted to say _'a lot of things were different between us back then',_ but she didn't want to argue.

“Just... not now, Yamcha,” she said. _'Not ever,'_ whispered a small voice in her head. She ignored it. “Come on,” she pointed at the nightstand again, this time with her head, and he _finally_ reached for the condom.

 _'Yeah, no orgasm for me today,_ ' she thought as he started moving inside her.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> True, he didn't seem to be as jacked as Raditz, and he definitely wasn't the tallest male she's ever seen, but she knew better than to judge people by their height. Take Krillin for example: about five inches shorter that her, but easily more than five times stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments! :) I really wanted (and planned) to answer some more questions in this chapter, but I hope you won't be disappointed – this chapter just sort of... happened, so I thought: why not?  
> Of course, there's definitely more to come - ch11 is already scribbled in my notebook :)

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 10**

Bulma wasn't surprised to see ChiChi bustling around the kitchen, but she certainly didn't expect that her friend had already managed to prepare ten _huge_ flasks of food, two cakes, a jug of lemonade, a pot of tea and two cups of coffee. There definitely weren't any flasks of that size in her house (not to mention an appropriate supply of grocery products...), so she assumed that ChiChi had done some early morning shopping in the nearby store.

She could also see that the younger woman was still frying and cooking something – probably Gohan's lunch. And...

“Oh gosh, do I smell fresh bread???” Bulma asked, her eyes wide.

ChiChi whipped her head around, “Oh, good morning, Bulma!” she greeted, smiling lightly. “Well, I know you like fresh bread, so I just baked it – it's still in the oven, but I'll be taking it out soon.”

“Chi, you shouldn't have! Really, it - ”

“None of this, Bulma – it's the least I could do, so just sit your ass _down_ and have some coffee with me,” she pointed at the two cups and turned off the stove. “Your oatmeal's in the fridge, soaked in milk and with some raisins and dried apples, and I've just finished preparing an omelette and a ragout, so - ”

It was Bulma's turn to cut her off, “Daaamn, ChiChi!” - she didn't miss the frown that appeared on ChiChi's face at her choice of words - “Just chill out! You know I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Did you even eat anything?”

ChiChi stamped her right foot, “I _like_ spending time in the kitchen – that's what helps me relax. And _yes,_ I _did eat,_ so just stop this silly interrogation, take your cup and _sit down.”_

Bulma raised her hands up, shook her head and smiled, muttering something that sounded like _'uhm, irreclaimable...'_. She took the coffee, added a bit of creamer and sat at the table.

“So, I guess you're going to the hospital?” she asked, pointing at the flasks.

“Of course I am! I have to talk with Goku's doctor,” ChiChi took her own coffee and sat opposite Bulma. “Besides, 1st Military has decent food, but there's nothing better than a home-made meal.”

Bulma smiled, “Yeah, can't argue with that.”

They talked for a while, mostly about Gohan and his mental state. ChiChi was still horrified by the events that took place right in front of her child's eyes (and it came as no surprise), but Bulma was relieved to hear that she and Gohan had an appointment with a child psychologist. The kid didn't really appear traumatized, but they couldn't afford to take any chances.

“Speaking of Gohan – where is he?”

ChiChi glanced at the clock, “Oh, probably still reading. He has this important competence test in August, so there's not much time left,” she explained, not really surprised by Bulma's baffled expression. “Pfft, they haven't told you, but I want Gohan to start primary school in September. And maybe they'll even allow him to go immediately into second or third grade...”

Bulma just nodded and lit up a cigarette. She knew a thing or two about being a 'gifted child' and somehow she doubted that sending Gohan to school earlier or, worse still, encouraging him to jump immediately to a higher grade, will do him any good. He's never really had much contact with his peers and she had a feeling that he was just... too shy, too polite, too _soft_ for dealing with cruel kids – because she was sure he'll instantly be labeled as 'the geek', 'the weirdo', 'the wimp' (especially if ChiChi's dream came true and he'd be allowed to start his education from third grade). He was smart – or, to be more precise, _very_ smart, but a really good primary school and optional classes should be enough for a kid his age.

She will forever be grateful to her parents for allowing her to have as normal life as it was possible. True, some kids made fun of her – a rich, well-known child prodigy attending a public school – but she's never been the one to be messed with. She just screamed, punched, kicked and thrown things until her peers learned their lesson. But Gohan...

Yes, she should probably try to talk with ChiChi in a few days and tell her that maybe it _wasn't_ such a great idea. They've never been as close as they could, but still – they've known each other for years, and she was really fond of the whole Son family. It was worth giving a try... even if she was sure she'll receive only a cold glare and maybe something along the lines of _'I like you, but don't tell me how to raise my child'_.

ChiChi's soft _'ahem'_ brought Bulma back from her musings.

“Welcome back, Bulma,” she sniggered lightly. “Do you mind if I borrow these shopping bags? I need something durable to carry -”

“Carry? You can't be serious!” Bulma shouted incredulously, butting her cigarette and getting up from the chair. “There's no way I'm letting you go there on foot! It's my fault, I completely forgot that Goku's car is still at my parents house... I'll call Capsule, someone will pick you up.”

“But-”

“No buts! Either that, or you're taking one of my cars.” Seeing that ChiChi was about to protest, she quickly added, “No, nothing huge or insanely fast – what about a black Legacy, huh?”

Under different circumstances, ChiChi would've probably fought tooth and nail to get her way, but, as it was, she just nodded and muttered, “... _fine,_ I'll take the car. _”_

Bulma shoved the shopping bags into ChiChi's lap, “Start packing, I'll get the keys,” she said and disappeared in the kitchen doorway. She came back a few minutes later and put the keys and registration certificate on the counter. “Fueled up and ready to go,” she announced, “and before you ask – there's a spare booster seat in the garage.”

“Thank you, Bulma, it's very...” ChiChi started, but a quick glance at Bulma's _'oh-come-on'_ expression told her that she probably shouldn't continue , “...yeah, well... I'll take out the bread and start packing.”

\- - -

Twenty minutes later ChiChi and Gohan were gone.

Bulma took the oatmeal from the fridge, deciding to heat it up in her office – she didn't want to waste time for gawking at the microwave in an empty kitchen, while she could be turning on her computer and getting ready to watch the surveillance tapes. Fortunately, the monitoring system saved the data simultaneously on both VHS and Blu-ray, so she didn't have to dust off her old VCR. She glanced at the clock. Almost 11 AM. She should be able to sort through the recordings, maybe even tinker with the armband for a while and make some notes - she had probably three or four hours before Yamcha wakes up.

Yes, she liked to sleep, but Yamcha's sleeping habits have always taken the cake: on his free days, he could sleep for fourteen hours straight and _still_ complain about being tired, even if he hardly raised a finger the day before. Most times, she didn't bother waking him up and just went about her business, but every now and then it simply pissed her off, or she just _had to_ lug him out of bed - and it was like dealing with a child who doesn't want to go to school.

 _'Focus, Bulma, no time for this shit,'_ she shook her head and entered her office. She put the oatmeal on a nearby table, turned on her computer and carefully opened the CD boxes, pleased to discover that the discs were neatly labeled and each one of them included four hours of footage. She immediately chose the disc labeled as “12:00 – 4:00 PM” and quickly scanned through the file and folder names. It seemed that she'd received the recordings from at least three or four different locations, but she wanted to begin with the one from the staircase. Thanks to her text message to Yamcha, she knew almost the exact time of the incident.

Bulma's fingers wriggled above the keyboard, _'”Here we go'”_ she whispered, opening the file and skipping to the desired moment.

The footage was black and white and a bit grainy, but that wasn't the most disappointing part - it turned out that the camera was installed on the wall, just above the stairs, so she could see the whole landing between the ground floor and the basement, as well as the entrance to the lobby, but unfortunately only a part of both flights of stairs. Great – apparently, hospital staircases were too _boring_ to even consider installing there a second camera...

Suddenly she noticed a hooded silhouette, casually moving down the stairs towards the landing. She paused the video. _'Yup, certainly a guy'_. It was as clear as day, even after seeing only the person's back and legs. His sweatshirt was dark and baggy, but the pants... Well, if his thighs and calves were any indication, he was no stranger to working out. True, he didn't seem to be as jacked as Raditz, and he definitely wasn't the tallest male she's ever seen, but she knew better than to judge people by their height. Take Krillin for example: about five inches shorter that her, but easily more than five times stronger.

Bulma leaned even further towards the screen and pressed 'play'. The stranger was already at the landing, ready to turn around and probably go downstairs, but then a second figure appeared on the screen. The doctor put a hand on the guy's shoulder, and his reaction was so fast that Bulma had to watch it again - in slow motion. Only then she was able to notice that the doctor hadn't even managed to touch the guy - as soon as the doctor's hand shot forward, the stranger ducked, turned around and caught the doctor by the collar of his shirt, raising him slightly off the ground. At that moment the fellow's face was effectively covered by the doctor's body, but he was obviously trying to avoid the camera – he'd turned his head even before he moved towards the opposite wall and pressed the poor doctor against it.

“Son of a bitch!” _,_ she shouted, watching helplessly as the doctor was punched in the jaw, _hard_ , and then thrown on the floor. A split second later the mysterious guy rearranged his hood, pulling it further over his head, and swiftly ran down the stairs.

“Ughhh, damn it!” Bulma screamed, smacking her fist against the arm of her swivel chair. It hurt a bit, so she added “Fucking hell!”, just for good measure.

She lit up a cigarette, looped the video and watched it a few more times, increasing and decreasing the playback speed, zooming in and out, capturing and saving some screenshots and paying more attention to other details – such as the fact that the guy was wearing fingerless gloves and mid-calf tactical shoes, both almost certainly _white._ In fact... she should be able to edit and sharpen the footage enough to catch a glimpse of the guy's face. She was about to start processing the most important bits, but her stomach growled in protest. _'_ ”Oh, right... the oatmeal...” she muttered, took the bowl and headed towards the small kitchenette. It had the basic amenities: a small fridge, a microwave, a coffee machine and a sink, but it was even more than enough – Bulma's favorite 'meal' during work has always been espresso, anyways.

She heated up her breakfast/lunch and made herself a mug of coffee. It was already 1 PM - cleaning up the video was going to take approximately three hours, and she didn't want to do it in a hurry, so she decided to work on it at night. She thought for a moment about whipping through the remaining recordings, but it was probably better to watch them with her friends – a fresh pair of eyes was always welcome.

With that in mind, she returned back to her desk to finally eat and fiddle with the armband. She already knew it was something _more_ than a simple watch or some stupid vital-monitoring shit – she just needed to find a way of gaining access to its contents. There were no visible buttons or anything even resembling a communication port, but upon closer inspection she found a small fingerprint reader located on the inner side of the armband. Pretty ingenious, but not impossible to bypass.

She hummed and munched slowly on the oatmeal, rolling her eyes in delight. She had no idea how the hell ChiChi's managed to make even a simple dish taste so good, but she definitely wasn't about to complain...

A few minutes later she set the empty bowl aside, took out her toolkit and focused on the armband. She had to somehow pry it open and take a look at the microchip...

”Gotcha!” she shouted and carefully lifted the chassis.

And then her eyes went wide.

She's never seen a chip so _tiny_. And the motherboard, the circuits... _Damn,_ if someone decided to launch this thing into the market, Capsule would most certainly be in trouble. _Big_ trouble. And that meant she had yet another question to add to her ever-growing list: _whose_ invention was it?

She reached for the magnifying glass and quickly studied the motherboard, discovering a few even smaller chips and transistors, and... Shit, she _knew_ it! The freaking thing had a tracking system! A GPS and probably even a real-time locating system...

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”, Bulma chanted, frantically checking the circuits for any potential damage. Three, two, one... “Oh, thank God...” she breathed a sigh of relief, running a (suddenly shaky) hand through her hair. The tracking system was disabled, most probably due to overvoltage, and she immediately thought about the photocell and its weird malfunction. She still had to do some more tests, but she was almost sure that the damned armband used an unknown to her frequency, and produced a pretty strong electromagnetic field – and both had probably contributed to her invention's failure. A hard pill to swallow, but maybe her photocell wasn't _as_ _flawless_ as she would have liked it to be...

Twenty minutes and four cigarettes later she finally came up with an idea on how to connect the wretched armband to her computer.

“...the fuck..?” she muttered, eyeing the files and folders in disbelief. For the life of her, she couldn't find a single _normal-looking_ letter... She activated automatic language identification – still nothing. For a moment she thought that maybe those symbols were similar to the ones she's seen on Goku's gun and his and Raditz's tattoo, but no. Definitely _no_.

So, probably some secret code? Frankly speaking, it was the only thing that came to her mind. Because it just _couldn't_ be another mysterious language, right...?

Bulma shook her head and decided to at least try to find out what kind of data was stored in the chip's memory, though she doubted she'd be able to do that without knowing the password.

Well, she was right.

First, second, third... eleventh file...

First, second... twentieth folder...

Each one of them has been encrypted, and in this case cracking the code wasn't a piece of cake – she'll probably have to somehow translate the strange symbols before running the decryption tool. She half-heartedly clicked on the last, twenty-first folder. And, to her utter amazement, it _opened_ , revealing a dozen or so files in a familiar format. Bulma's face was once again inches from the screen, her index finger hovering just above the 'enter' button. “Oooh _damn_ , this could be good...” _,_ she whispered excitedly, hoping that Raditz (or whoever had uploaded these files) completely forgot about encrypting them. She pressed the key _..._

 

...and straightened out so fast that she almost fell off her chair.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His furious gaze was directed towards the SUV, and if she hadn't already known what was going to happen, she'd say that he was going to pull the door from their hinges with his bare hands and then tear the driver limb from limb. _'Huh, still.. He might have done that later...',_ she thought humorlessly. There was no doubt in her mind about his nature. She knew it from the moment she saw the photos - he was bad to the bone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N no. 1: A **BIG** thank you to everyone who read/commented/left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked this story :) I'm having fun writing it - and I do hope I'll be able to keep it interesting for you :) I know, took me long enough to update... I actually finished retyping this chapter on Thursday, but didn't have time to check it and add a few bits here and there, so I left it for Friday... and added more than just a few bits. I hope it's readable and not thoroughly ruined by messed-up grammar.

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 11**

“ _Whoa!_ Wasn't expecting _that_!” Bulma shouted, staring at a close-up photo of three thick fingers buried deep inside an _extremely_ wet pussy. She rolled her eyes and chuckled lightly, “Freaking kink... I swear, if the next ones are similar...”

It's not that she was embarrassed or grossed out – she's never had a problem with that kind of photos, but she just wanted to see something that could actually _help her_ find answers... Not something that reminded her about her own, almost nonexistent sexual life.

She closed the photo and tried to enable image preview, but for some reason it wasn't possible, so she just sighed and went back to the task at hand.

Naked boobs, a few photos of Raditz with some girls - probably in a bar or a nightclub, naked boobs again, two or three pictures of tables littered with alcohol, Raditz lifting some serious weights, more boobs - this time in a lacy bra, a huge, bald guy in a tracksuit, with his back facing the camera and forearms resting on the roof of a white SUV, Raditz showing –

_Waaait._

The SUV! She scrolled back to the previous photo and pulled out her phone – sure enough, it was the same vehicle. Well, maybe not _exactly_ the one she'd seen in the parking lot, but definitely the same model... Though she still hand no idea what kind of brand could that be.

She felt a shiver go down her spine. _Holy mother of fuck..._ Were they being followed..? Or was it just a really, _really_ creepy coincidence..?

“Oh, fuck my life...” Bulma muttered, snatched a cigarette from an almost empty pack, lit it and took a few long drags. “Calm down, girl, you'll figure it out...”

Something told her that shit was going to hit the fan with a 'bang' and fireworks, but she wasn't about to voice that thought.

She exhaled loudly and went back to scrolling through the pictures: a few photos of Raditz showing off his muscles, then a fuzzy picture of someone's messily bandaged, bloody and bruised hand giving the finger to the camera, naked boobs _again_ , a much younger - probably teenage - Raditz at a shooting range, grinning dumbly and giving thumbs up to the camera. His head was slightly tilted towards one of the shooting booths, so Bulma's gaze immediately moved in the same direction. The counter of the booth was placed unnaturally low, and she wondered who the...

“...fuck...” she muttered, covering her mouth in shock.

She's seen her fair share of weird and disturbing things, but she wasn't quite prepared for the sight of a _kid –_ a boy with dark, unruly hair, dressed only in something similar to a sleeveless, blue jumpsuit which showed off his small, but already toned arms. And he was firmly holding a big-ass _sniper rifle_ . Bulma blinked a few times and distractedly lit another cigarette. The boy seemed to be straightening up from a shooting position and she really hoped that it was just one of those sick _'let's-impress-your-friends-at-school'_ photos...

...but the surface of the shooting lane divider was made of glass, so a second later she noticed a blurry reflection of the boy's profile. And his expression was by no means playful or childishly giddy. Despite the roundness of his cheeks and his short stature, there was something... _deadly_ about him. And his smirk was downright _malicious._ No kid should be looking and giving off vibes like _that_. He shouldn't – couldn't, really – be older than Gohan, and yet...

_'Fucking psychos... Who the hell are those people..?'_ she thought, zooming in the photo. She needed some more details, preferably a name or a logo of the shooting range, because the whole furnishing and layout of the place was completely different than anything she's seen in her country. Maybe Roshi or Piccolo could help her with that..? She was about to move to the next picture, but something caught her attention.

A human-shaped shooting target with gaping bullet holes between the eyes, in the mouth, on both sides of the neck... three in the heart, two in what would probably be the right lobe of the liver, then one in each thigh and knee...

...right opposite the boy's shooting booth.

At that point Bulma had enough. In any other case, she would've probably thought that Raditz had fired a few spot-on ( _disturbingly_ spot-on, especially for an adolescent) shots and gave the rifle to the kid so he could have a 'cool' photo and flash it around... But now? After seeing that little devil's expression and his frosty stare..? She actually felt sick to the stomach. Because, yes, she was a weapons specialist. Yes, she's always loved guns and yes, she spent the majority of her teenage ( _teenage!!!_ ) years at a shooting range, but with an _air gun_ or a _handgun –_ not a fucking _sniper rifle_ with .50 BMG cartridges!

She knew it wasn't the last photo, but her brain was already going into overdrive. She disconnected the armband, stormed out of the office and headed upstairs. She had to get dressed and show all of that to Roshi, Krillin and Piccolo.

And she didn't give a _fuck_ if Yamcha had enough of his beauty sleep or not.

\- - -

Bulma sighed, leaning against the backrest of her chair, “...as you've probably noticed, the guy's awfully _cautious._ He's keeping his face pretty nicely covered.”

Krillin, Roshi and Piccolo directed their gaze towards her, but Yamcha was still absentmindedly staring at the huge flat screen TV. She decided to pay him no mind - he was still somewhat angry at her for rushing him and threatening to go her parents' house alone if he wouldn't hurry.

They had finished watching the recordings from staircases and corridors, and Bulma decided they should take a short breather. The fellow's face still remained unknown, but his silhouette was more or less visible on every video. He seemed to be looking for something - or someone. He'd appeared suddenly on the last floor (supposedly from the direction of an adjacent parking garage), methodically walked through the hallway and then headed towards the staircase. He repeated the same routine on every floor to finally appear on the ground floor staircase, punch the doctor in the jaw and disappear in the basement. They had no idea how exactly he'd left the building, but that had to wait.

“Yeah, a tough one to figure out...” Krillin agreed. “But you've said something about cleaning up the video from the staircase, right?”

Bulma nodded, “I'll do that tonight, Krills. I just need some more time, but I hope the final effect's going to be worth the wait.”

Roshi and Piccolo were silent, and while she perfectly knew that it was Roshi's usual way of dealing with new information, she had no idea what was going on in Piccolo's head. She didn't have to wonder for too long, though.

“Special forces...” Piccolo muttered to no one in particular, but at that point everyone, Yamcha included, was looking at him.

Bulma tilted her head, “Huh? Come again?”

“Special forces,” he repeated. “He moves like soldiers from special forces.” Seeing that Bulma was about to protest, he quickly clarified, “But not _your_ kind of special forces. Not like Son or Krillin. More like something similar to my... previous occupation _._ ”At that point, Bulma and Krillin almost simultaneously slapped their foreheads in sudden recognition, while Roshi shook his head and murmured “mhmm”. Yamcha just stared.

Piccolo's eyes narrowed and widened rapidly, “Don't tell me you haven't -”

“Oh, come on!” Bulma raised her hands up, “I was just focused on other details!”

“Doesn't matter now. What matters is that he's probably more dangerous than we've thought. As far as I know, the current government despises killing and doesn't hire mercenaries... So, foreign intel? Mafia? A frustrated businessman? Regardless - that kind of guys _always_ mean trouble. They don't just _appear_ in places – and if they do, there's something ugly going on,” he summed up.

“Pff, _pretty_ _sure_ you're talking from experience...” Yamcha mumbled, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“YAMCHA! Shut up!” Bulma shot up from her seat, ready to hit him with something heavy, but at the same time praying that (as infuriating and plain _dumb_ as Yamcha could be at times) Piccolo wasn't going to kill him on the spot.

He didn't.

“Yes, I do,” Piccolo replied, his voice a tone lower and a little bit more firm. “But do keep similar comments to yourself. I'm not your buddy, nor do I want to be” he warned. Yamcha shifted uncomfortably, muttered a quick apology and lowered his gaze to the ground.

_'The idiot... what was he thinking..?'_ Bulma ran a hand through her hair. She had to do something to relieve the tension, so she decided to draw their attention to the armband. She quickly explained everything she knew so far about the contraption, connected it to her laptop, selected the image files and hit 'run slideshow', handing the remote to Krillin. And, while Roshi's and Krillin's immature, giddy reaction to photos of naked or almost naked boobs and a few scantily clad chicks came as no surprise (and Piccolo remained unimpressed – just as she thought), she didn't expect that _Yamcha_ would be the one to throw a few lecherous glances towards the projection screen. He tried to be discreet about it, but she could definitely tell that he _enjoyed_ the view. She was no prude - she sure as hell could appreciate a nice body (both male and female) when she saw one, but _that_ look was completely new to her... They had watched tons of movies with nude and/or sex scenes (and even some porn) together, and not even once he'd been so... _captivated._

And it irked her. It angered her. It _hurt_ her, because she's never had problems with self-acceptance or self-esteem (rather the opposite, really – she _loved_ her body), and now here she was, wondering what the hell did those women have that _she_ lacked. Maybe it really was her fault..? Maybe she really should try harder to juice up their sex life, take better care of herself, or just go with Yamcha somewhere when he -

“Hey, Bulma..?” Krillin started, waiting patiently for her reaction.

Her head snapped up and she quickly tried to figure out what she'd missed. “H-huh..? Yeah?”

“You've seen it?” he asked, pointing towards the screen.

She made a wry face. _'Oh, great, the creepy kid again...'_

“Ugh, yes... Though wish I haven't. Cannot unsee.”

Krillin nodded, “Yeah... But maybe any idea on where could that be? Because we honestly don't know,” - at that point Bulma groaned loudly - “and even _Roshi_ says that he can't remember seeing anything similar. You know - the glass, the colors... I mean, come on - a shooting range with _purple_ walls???”

She snorted, “It's _dark_ purple. More like Byzantium  (*)  , really... Nah, never mind,” she waved her hand, seeing their puzzled looks. “I too don't know. Kind of hoped you'd be able to help me with that, but... yeah,” she shrugged.

“And what about the vest?” Roshi asked suddenly, but they knew it was just a rhetorical question. “It's definitely bulletproof, and Raditz is wearing it in most of the photographs. And I'm sure you've noticed that his demeanor was very much that of a soldier, so I think it's safe to say that the vest is a part of his uniform - though I've never seen a similar attire.”

“I bet our mystery guy was wearing something like that underneath his sweatshirt,” Bulma chimed in. “And the car? You know, the white SUV in one of the photos?”

“Yeah, what about it?” Yamcha asked, clearly surprised by the sudden change of subject.

“ _That,_ ” she replied, moving to the second computer and opening the photo she'd copied from her phone. “Parked in the hospital's parking lot. It's obviously the same model, don't you think?”

She could see that they were starting to connect the dots - Yamcha's eyes visibly widened, Krillin started nervously rubbing his head, Roshi stroked his beard a few times and Piccolo slowly nodded and reached for a cigarette. _'Good idea, big guy,'_ she thought, mimicking his action.

“They were tracking us,” Piccolo stated, his voice serious.

“M-hmm, that's possible... But we still need more evidence. Is this the last picture?” Roshi asked, once again directing their attention to the projection screen.

“No, there's one more. I –”

At that moment Krillin pressed 'next', and she completely forgot what the hell was she about to say.

The photo was blurry and underexposed, taken at a close range, probably in motion and in some dark, god-forsaken place, but two things clearly stood out: splashes of blood on a white vest and that _damned_ smirk.

Bulma almost dropped her cigarette. She couldn't see his whole face, only a part of his mouth, left cheek and nose, but it _had to_ be the kid from the shooting range. He was a few years older - presumably in his teens, seeing as his features were no longer rounded. And - judging by the outline of his bicep underneath his tight, seemingly long-sleeved top - quite a bit more muscular, but she'd recognize that smirk _everywhere_.

And while she found the photo from the shooting range disturbing, this one was just plain _horrifying._ Not because of the blood, but because a creepy-looking kid apparently grew up to be a freaking _psycho_. And now the smirk was positively insane. Savage. _Sadistic_.

“Holy fuck!” she yelled, unable to keep her voice down. “That's him! The fucking kid!”

She heard Yamcha's 'huh?' and Roshi's 'm-hmm', but Krillin was still staring intently at the screen. “Gloves..?”, he mumbled after a while, squinting his eyes, but then he remembered about the remote and zoomed in the bottom of the photo.

It was blurred, just as the rest of the picture, but now she could see an outstretched thumb and an index finger of the teenager's right hand, as if he was making a finger gun gesture. Yes, he was wearing gloves.

Covered in dirt and blood, but definitely _white_ gloves.

And - even though they weren't fingerless - she totally _refused_ to believe that it was just another coincidence.

“Shit!!! Oh fuck, I told you! I fucking _knew_ it!” Bulma yelled again, this time much louder, causing everyone to wince and look at her like she was insane. She lit up another cigarette and collected herself. “I zoomed in the video from the staircase,” - she took a long drag - “you know, when I was watching it at home. I know it's grainy as hell, but the guy had fucking fingerless gloves, most certainly _white_. Same goes for his shoes. And” - she pointed at the screen - “it just _has to_ be him. I'm telling you, Raditz fucking knows this creep - I still have to check a few things, but I'm sure he followed us, tracked Raditz's wretched armband and _fucking_ followed! And this photo? He's wearing a vest - white, but who cares?! It's still a fucking _vest_!” she butted her cigarette, almost knocking the ashtray off the table.

Nobody dared to say anything for a while. Then...

“I'm with her on that,” Piccolo said, giving her a short nod.

Bulma returned his gesture, pleased that he agreed with her. Krillin and Yamcha also nodded, but she was still waiting for Roshi's opinion.

“Well... I can't say I disagree, but we must not forget about Gero. This armband is clearly a very advanced piece of technology, ” - he looked at Bulma knowingly - “and I'm sure you've been wondering whose invention is it.”

_Damn_ , he read her like a book.

“Yeah... Yes... I know,” she replied. “We won't forget about Gero, but we just _have to_ find out more about those lunatics... I have to decrypt the files - and believe me,” - she gently patted the armband - “this little thing is _packed_ with information, I just need some time to -”

“What about an extra pair of hands? I know you're the specialist, but I'm not clueless when it comes to guns - I could examine them,” Roshi suggested. “And I'm sure Krillin and Corporal Daimao here wouldn't mind helping me.”

“Yeah, me too, Bulma.” Yamcha suddenly appeared in front of her and rubbed her arms in what was meant to be a comforting gesture, but somehow it only deepened her frustration and angered her even more.

She caught his wrists, “Not now, Yamcha. But thank you,” she muttered, trying hard to keep her nerves at bay and not lash out on him in front of everyone. He shot her a 'what-the-hell?' look, but then shrugged and sat back on the couch.

“Thank you Prof, Piccolo, Krillin. I could definitely use some help,” she smiled faintly. “For the time being, let's check out the recordings from outside cameras. And I think we should start from the ones directed towards the parking garage.”

It turned out that there were two cameras on each floor of the garage – just above the two way entry/exit and near the passageway that lead to the hospital. This time the footage wasn't black and white, but still, fishing out the guy's silhouette wasn't an easy task. Two hours later they found what - who - they were looking for: a guy in white, fingerless gloves, white shoes, black pants and black sweatshirt...

...dismounting a motorbike? Huh, that was quite unexpected... Of course, they couldn't see his face – he turned his back to the camera - _both_ cameras, actually - taking off the helmet with one hand and simultaneously pulling the hood over his head with the other. _Damn_ , he was good - and stealthy as fuck.

Bulma zoomed in the video to read the license plate, but snorted as soon as she recognized the familiar format. _'Oh please, local..? Bet they're fake. Or the bike's stolen.'_ she thought grimly, saving the screenshot. She was definitely going to check her theory later - just to be sure. She could also check if the bike was still where he'd left it, but: a) she doubted that she'd be able to find his fingerprints or DNA in any database, b) frankly speaking, right now she was more curious about the SUV.

They exchanged a few comments and a few seconds later Bulma found the footage from the parking lot. _'Great, only one...' -_ seriously, she was about to call the Head of Security and give him a piece of mind (probably even before asking if this _really_ was the only one recording), but - thankfully – the camera was wide-angle and color. She fast-forwarded the video, stopping as soon as she noticed the SUV. They watched as it slowly drove in, went around the lot and came to a halt. The license plate was unusually small and indistinct, even after zooming in, but that wasn't a problem – this image was much cleaner than the one from the staircase, so she had no doubt she'd be able to sharpen it in less than an hour.

For a few minutes nothing happened, but then the driver's door smoothly swung upwards...

“Hoooly cow, a freaking _he-man_! No wonder he needs gull-wing door!” Krillin shouted, staring incredulously at the driver, who moved slightly towards the rear passenger door and nonchalantly lit up a cigarette.

He _towered_ over the massive SUV. He had to be about 7 feet tall, but that wasn't the worst thing. His muscles were. He was _jacked_ . Beefy. Extremely - almost _inhumanly_ \- pumped up. She wondered what size of clothes -

_...clothes...._

“Seems I was right about the uniform,” Roshi said simply.

They couldn't agree more - the hulk of a man was wearing a vest almost identical to Raditz's. They couldn't see his pants or shoes, but at that point it didn't matter. He could be rigged out in a skirt and high-heels, for all they cared.

Bulma screwed up her eyes - something about the guy seemed strangely familiar... But it wasn't the creepy, thin mustache. So maybe...

“Of course! The bald, huge guy in a tracksuit we've seen in the photo!” she exclaimed, and her companions just hummed in agreement.

The big brute carelessly threw the butt on the ground, got back into the car and shut the door. Another few minutes passed, and then Bulma finally noticed herself on the screen. She involuntarily leaned forward, waiting for the SUV to take off, fully expecting to see the hooded creep jumping out of one of the windows in the ground floor – because, honestly: there was only _one_ side door which lead to the parking lot, and she certainly hadn't crossed paths with him.

She was in for a surprise. The SUV shot forward, but at the same time someone entered the lot...

...from the street side. _Street side?_ And something was...

“Fucking hell!” she shouted, immediately realizing why she'd felt that something was not quite right - he wasn't wearing a hood. She paused the video and pressed 'zoom' with so much force that she damn near crushed the poor remote in her hand. “How the fuck did he even get outside?! Crawled through a fucking _sewer_ or something???”

No one answered - they just kept staring at the screen.

Sure enough, the guy was wearing white tactical shoes, fitted dark pants and white fingerless gloves, but the long sleeved, dark blue top was a far - _really_ far - cry from the baggy sweatshirt. It was _tight._ Hell, probably even tighter than Raditz's pants - and that's saying something. _'Yep, no stranger to the gym alright...'_ she thought, zooming in even more, but by no means intending to admire his sculpted body.

She needed a close-up of his face.

His features were chiseled and slightly sharper than in the photo from his teenage years, but one look at his hair reassured Bulma that she's been right all along. His hairstyle was similar to the one he had as a boy – dark, seemingly shorter on the sides and oh-so-carelessly upswept, spiked locks. ' _Yeah, right,'_ Bulma snickered inwardly. _'A fucking hour in front of the mirror...'_ He wasn't smirking this time, but that didn't make him look any less menacing - though certainly a bit more _sane_. His face seemed impassive, but boy, was she glad that it was just a video...

If looks could kill, they would all be dead by now.

He had the blackest, most terrifying eyes she's ever seen. Period. His furious gaze was directed towards the SUV, and if she hadn't already known what was going to happen, she'd say that he was going to pull the door from their hinges with his bare hands and then tear the driver limb from limb. _'Huh, still... He might have done that later...',_ she thought humorlessly. There was no doubt in her mind about his nature. She knew it from the moment she saw the photos - he was bad to the bone.

Bulma's head felt like it was about to explode. She needed, _craved_ , caffeine, so she quickly saved a few screenshots, exchanged meaningful looks with her companions and pressed 'play'. Unsurprisingly, the passenger door swung open and the car came to a halt just in front of the guy. He jumped in so swiftly and so quickly that she was actually impressed – yes, she remembered that the SUV had stopped only for a moment, but she had no idea how much time had actually passed before it drove off.

Well, now she knew.

Two and a half seconds.

\- - -

Bulma said her goodbyes at about 8 PM, and she was currently driving home - alone, because Yamcha decided to stay a bit longer to train with Krillin and help with examining the weapons. She could have come up with a snappy remark about his knowledge about guns, but she was way too engrossed in rethinking the schedule of her upcoming all-nighter.

_'Fucking psychos,'_ she muttered and  shivered involuntarily. She wasn't afraid - sure as hell wasn't going to barricade herself at home, cry and wring her hands over their certain demise - but she couldn't quite shake off the unpleasant impression that something, or rather _someone_ , was lurking in the shadows, just waiting for the right moment to strike. _'You're losing it, Bulma'_ she chastised herself and changed up the gear. _'Think about warm coffee and fresh, homemade bread.'_

It definitely helped, but at some point her thoughts drifted to the photo of a boy wielding a sniper rifle, then a teenager with a savage smirk and splashes of blood on his clothes, and finally to the man she'd seen on the video.

Yeah, they were knee-deep in some _serious_ shit.

~~

_I'm the one you never see in the dead of night_  
_Peeking in your window, staying out of sight_  
_Go to bed, lock the door, don't look in the mirror_  
_What if I was right behind you_  
_Smiling like a killer (**) _

~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (*) I had no idea, but it's actually a color :D I stumbled upon it while checking out different shades of purple :)
> 
> (**) “Smiling Like a Killer” by Motörhead – obviously, I don't own. I just totally worship them.
> 
> A/N no. 2: : Fun fact :) Timeline: huh, ten or eleven years ago, so no smartphones. And phones with cameras - especially with bigger screens - were still quite expensive (at least where I live). For some time my friend was using her older brother's phone - her cell was just battered, kept turning off etc., and he bought himself a new one, so why not? Almost immediately after receiving the phone she took a few photos of her high school colleagues and they wanted to see how they turned out, so they huddled around her, she opened the phone's gallery (small screen, even smaller thumbnails) and just chose the first file without looking, because she was sure it was the last one she took... Yeah, it wasn't :) It was a close-up photo of a pussy. Her brother told her that he'd deleted everything, but – obviously - he hadn't, and she simply forgot to check. And it turned out that it was her brother's girlfriend's pussy - they were totally cool about it, like “ooh, glad you have it, couldn't find it on the new phone!” That's how I came up with the idea of what exactly should Bulma see in the photo :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, that wasn't much... Though she could see that some of the missing letters occurred in more than one word – for example, the last letter of the first word was the same as the last letter of the second and fifth word, and... Shit, she should probably try and mark them somehow...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N no. 1:** A **BIG THANK YOU** to everyone who read / commented / left kudos / subscribed / bookmarked / are following this story :) Your support means a lot to me and I'm really, really, _**really**_ glad that you've enjoyed it so far! I'm terribly sorry for the delay in updating – I've had a really busy week at work. But, without further ado...

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 12**

Bulma arrived home a few minutes after ChiChi and Gohan. She was glad to learn that Goku would be ready to leave the hospital in two days to begin rehabilitation. She could see that ChiChi was a bit more relaxed, so she assumed that the appointment with the child psychologist also went well. She talked with them for a while, but somehow managed to get out of eating supper, reassuring ChiChi that she'd _really_ eaten at her parent's house ( _naah,_ she hadn't) and coffee was all she truly needed right now.

Half an hour later she wished them good night and locked herself in her office.

\---

The cleaned-up video from the staircase only confirmed what she'd already known – it _was_ the same guy, and Bulma tried to find out how the hell was it possible that he'd disappeared in the basement and then reappeared off the hospital's premises. She checked the remaining videos from outside cameras in the hope of finding new information, but to no avail. He didn't emerge from one of the secluded alleys (or a sewer opening, though she fully expected him to do so) – just casually strutted towards the parking lot from the direction of a nearby crossroad. Come to think of it, lots of buildings in West City had a quite nicely developed tangle of underground corridors and passageways – it was possible he'd heard of them and decided to put this knowledge to use... Never mind, maybe she'll check this theory later. She called the hospital (not really paying attention to the hour, considering that security should answer the phone 24/7) and asked about videos from the basement hallway – only to learn that they had none, because the whole basement was under renovation and they _'didn't have time'_ to install a new monitoring system. Well, she really should give them a piece of her mind, because this kind of thing shouldn't happen in a hospital that had the word _'military'_ in its name - and freaking _body scanners_ at every entrance! - but she decided to hand it over to her father or one of their coworkers. Capsule Corp. has been taking part in (and financing) lots of medical projects for many years - she supposed they had the right to be concerned.

With that thought in mind, she checked off _'staircase, basement & entrance cams'_ from her to-do list and moved to the next task – license plates.

She wasn't surprised that the motorbike had, indeed, been stolen (and returned to the owner a little more than 25 hours later - because _yes,_ she hacked into the police database, so what?). She was, however, quite alarmed by the note she'd found in the case records: _'No fingerprints were discovered on the vehicle or the helmet. Analysis of DNA from hair samples still in progress.'_

The fuck?! What did they mean by _'no fingerprints'_? The dude had fucking _fingerless_ gloves, he _had to_ leave fingerprints! Oh God, those lazy donut-eaters probably hadn't even bothered to check! And the whole bullshit about _'DNA analysis'_? Oh please, they were just trying to pull the wool over their chief's eyes...

Weren't they..? Or maybe...

...maybe his fingers were covered with an impossibly thin layer of _something -_ silicone, latex? Or maybe he had his fingerprints removed? Bulma knew it was possible - either permanently, for example by undergoing surgery, or temporarily, by abrasion. Well, there was also the fingerprint loss due to chemotherapy or certain illnesses... rather improbable, but who knew? After all, Raditz's fingerprints were still intact – they just weren't listed in any database.

Yup, one more thing to think about.

Within the next hour and a half Bulma managed to clean up the screenshot from the parking lot and read the SUV's license plate. She recognized the country code - the car has been registered in the ESR(*), known also as United Eastern Country, but gaining access to their Register of Vehicles to check who was the owner turned out to be... impossible. She truly hated the word - especially when _she_ was the one using it - but she really, _really_ ran out of options. She knew the official language of the ESR – hell, she cracked every imaginable password to their databases some ten or eleven years ago, when she was trying to decipher the meaning of Goku's tattoo – so why the fuck couldn't she do that _now_?

The ESR was a large, though moderately developed island country, not really open to international trade, not interested in becoming a member of any multinational economic or military organization and quite unattractive in terms of tourism – partially due to rapid weather changes, frequently occurring natural disasters and no known cultural heritage sites, but mostly because the ESR's government has repeatedly stressed that “ _the inhabitants are still rebuilding their national identity and they are not ready to open themselves up to other cultures”._ While the world history has never been Bulma's forte, she knew that forty years ago the then Chancellor of the ESR had been killed by a gunman, who turned out to be a former military officer suffering from schizophrenia. That came as a shock - back in the day, the country had been much smaller and even less developed, but its society had always had a strong community spirit and had been considered as easy-going and not prone to violence. Since the assassination, the country has been consistently annexing the numerous surrounding islands, promoting territorial cohesion and strengthening its defenses, but it seemed as if they were trying _too_ hard to keep the foreigners out of -

Oh, damn.

They _were_ dealing with foreign intel or assassins for the ESR's current government.

But why now? Why their country? Why _Goku_ ? And what was the point of feeding them with a story about those... _Saiyans,_ or whatever? There was a freaking _ocean_ and thousands of miles of land between them and the ESR – and those guys flew or sailed (probably with a _car_ on board) to the other end of the world just to do some stalking, spew shit about another race, shot Goku and then do some more stalking..? Pfff, that hardly seemed to be a sufficient reason... But could it be that the ESR was Goku's homeland..? Then what about the freakish languages? The accents, the tattoos, the guns...

...the armband? Because, seriously: a so-called 'moderately developed country' with _that_ kind of technology and suddenly-advanced-as-fuck database and file security? And a vehicle that looked like it's been taken straight out of some car-crazed millionaire's wet dream?

“Moderately developed, my ass...” Bulma mumbled, then sighed loudly and stretched her arms over her head. She still had a shitload of work to do, but her brain was starting to shut off, so she decided to take a quick break – air the room out, make herself another mug of coffee, maybe even wander to the kitchen to get a few slices of bread. Yeah, it was 5 AM, but it wasn't like she'd eaten much during the day - she tended to lose appetite when stressed or engrossed in work, and even her mother's or Chichi's first-class cuisine wasn't enough to change her mind.

Now, however, when she was _finally_ getting somewhere, she felt ready to digest something more than coffee. “Mhm... strawberry jam sandwiches... _Yummy_...” she muttered, picked up her Glock and tucked it into the waistband of her pants. Nope, she still wasn't afraid – but forewarned is forearmed, right?

\---

“Hey, Bulmaaa!”

Bulma's head shot up from her desk, “Huh..? Whaaa - ”

“Well, hello there! I thought you'd never wake up!” Yamcha said with a smile, then pointed towards the gun lying on the desk, “Good thing you didn't shot my balls off, hahah!”

She rubbed the sleep off her eyes, desperately trying to stay awake. “M-hmm... hi, Yamcha... Whatcha doing here at...” - she glanced at the clock - “uhh...7 AM?”

He chuckled, “I live here, you know? But, seriously, you haven't read my message, huh?”

“Yeah, apparently...” she forced herself up and stretched, twisting her face when she heard a particularly loud 'pop'. Yep, her back hurt, alright.

“I stayed at your parent's and jogged here, I have practice at 8 so I wanted to limber up a bit,” he explained, lightly kissing her on the forehead. “Aaand, speaking of practice,” - he grinned dumbly and scratched his temple in thought, and Bulma knew it was _not_ a good sign - “you've seen my baseball gear?”

In a split second she went from sleepy to _pissed off_.

“Excuse me???” she yelled, not really aware that the door to her office was open. “Are you _five_ or something?! I slept for a fucking _hour_ , and you wake me up to ask about your _baseball shit_???”

“Calm down, Bulma, geeez, I'm sorry, but -”

“Calm down? Are you _serious_?” At that point she gave up on screaming - it was just pointless. She heaved a frustrated sigh, glanced at the door and then back at him, “Yamcha, you _know_ where's your wardrobe,” - he rolled his eyes - “so go and check there. Or in the garage, if that's where you've left your things after last week's practice.”

He snorted, “Of course I know! But I also know that _you_ know, so maybe you've decided to put it somewhere else? I didn't want to run around the house and - ”

“And _what_? Wake up ChiChi and Gohan? Well then, congratulations” - she pointed towards the door - “they're certainly awake _now_ , because _someone_ was too freaking _lazy_ to – ugh! Why am I even surprised..?” she shook her head and sat back on the chair, leaning back as much as it was possible.

“Go get some sleep,” Yamcha said after a while, dryly and with a hint of anger in his voice, “and then check your e-mail. See you later.”

“Yeah, later,” Bulma replied, watching him leave the room. Oh, great, as always – as if the fucking door didn't exist...

They were back to arguing. _Again._ And this time she didn't even try to put the blame on anything - or anyone. No more excuses. She was just... _tired_.

~~

_And for the longest time I knew_   
_There was nothing left for us to do_   
_But I tried, oh I try_   
_And in this quiet company_   
_There is nothing staring back at me_   
_I'm in need of a sound (**)_

_~~_

She shook her head in resignation. She needed to relax - take a shower, drink some _more_ coffee, maybe eat something - and then come back to her office and finish fiddling with the armband. She'd managed to run a new translation/decryption program before falling asleep at her desk, and she couldn't wait to see the results.

\- - -

Bulma was definitely making progress - she's managed to gain access to the data recorded by the GPS and tracking system, though she couldn't find any logs prior to Sunday. It could be a side-effect of the overvoltage, but something told her that it was a deliberate, planned action.

She quickly scanned the files, and _voilà_ _–_ coordinates of a village near Mt. Paozu, coordinates of Lake Kame, We -

 

Well, _crap._

 

_West City._ She _knew i_ _t_ \- the damned thing had started to work shortly after their landing in West City. True, the data transmission lasted only a few seconds, but that was more than enough. She wasn't able to prove it _(yet),_ but she was sure who'd received the coordinates.

_'Damn, high time to get the whole cavalry together...'_ she thought, reaching for a cigarette. Initially, they planned to wait a few more days – let Goku rest and spend some time with his family, call Tien and Chiaotzu only after collecting more information, but now..? She definitely had to consult it with Roshi.

A few minutes later she moved to her second computer. Yes, she had to let the program do its job, but she wasn't intending to sit on her hands. She scrolled through recent articles and news concerning the ESR, but found absolutely _nothing_ significant – at least, not to them. And then she remembered that Yamcha said something about checking her e-mail. _'Ugh, he'd better not send me a photo of his new baseball glove, or I swear...'_

He hadn't. It was an e-mail from Krillin - entitled _'guns n'knives'_ (and she couldn't help but snort, because she'd recognize his puns - or _attempts_ at puns - everywhere), containing some basic information about Raditz's weapons and a few photos. Bulma started reading, purposely leaving the attachments until last.

It turned out that the guns didn't have serial numbers. As in, they've _never_ had – the numbers were not removed, defaced, modified or illegible; they simply hadn't been stamped. Assigning serial numbers became required and normalized fifty years ago – not only in their country, but worldwide – and neither of the guns could be _that_ old, even if Raditz was indeed older than Goku. While Krillin, Roshi and Piccolo were almost completely sure that the gun with the red handle was custom-made, they had no clue about the second one – to them, its shape resembled a Smith & Wesson M&P, but that's where the similarities ended. They've found three, small and odd-looking symbols on the trigger guard, but couldn't decipher their meaning.

“Huh... sounds like another riddle. _.”_ she muttered, moving to the next paragraph.

The same went for the knife: three unknown to them symbols on the handle, nothing more. And the leg wrap... was just a decently made, leather knife wrap.

Bulma frowned. She was wondering if they've checked the -

Oh, good – they have.

_'The red handled one really looks like Goku's – the shape, inscriptions (though Roshi's not sure about the handle – check that for us, ok? we couldn't find any photos on your pc, had to rely on our memory only), caliber, magazine type... though the bullets seem a bit different and Raditz's definitely looks well-used.'_

She opened the first attachment - a photo of Raditz's leg wrap and knife - and immediately zoomed in the handle. Sure enough, three strange symbols...

 

…symbols she's seen before.

 

“Fucking armband _again_!” she groaned in frustration, running her hands through her hair. Of course, everything just _had to_ come down to this little thing - she's seen similar symbols in a few folder names. And it was just their luck that so far she's managed to decrypt only _one_ folder and translate a few digits (and four letters) used in geographical coordinates. Well, she just had to be _patient_ and wait for the program to finish processing the data...

Fortunately, Bulma had other things to keep her mind occupied – she got back to viewing the photos. The guys had a point - the gun resembled a Smith & Wesson, though she immediately spotted the differences. But the brand... well, she was a freaking _expert,_ and she too had no idea what kind of brand could that be. Another custom-made shooter..? Maybe. In any case, she couldn't wait to get her hands on it. The next photo was a close-up of the known/unknown symbols on the trigger guard, and then...

“Perfect,” Bulma whispered, zooming in the photo. The gun's red handle was now displayed on the whole screen, but that was exactly what she wanted to see. She hummed in thought, scrolled up to take a look at the barrel, and then minimized the photo and started frantically searching for something on her hard drive.

A few minutes later there were two photos on the screen, arranged side by side, both zoomed in to the same spot. One of them was a photo of Goku's gun - and Roshi was right. The inscription on the handle of Raditz's gun _was_ different – shorter and with different symbols (letters..?) than the one on Goku's. If she could only decipher -

All in all, she could try.

She found one of the very few photos of Goku's tattoo and opened it, placing it between the photos of the guns. She stared at the screen for a while, then grabbed a pen and a piece of paper. So, _Saiya_ , huh..? It was a tricky word - she wasn't sure about the spelling, but it should probably look like...

_S A I Y A [ or: S A I J A ]_

“Yep, something like that,” Bulma muttered, chewing the tip of her pen. Damn, she was an engineer, not a detective, but she was starting to get _really_ excited. She glanced at the handle of Raditz's weapon, then at Goku's tattoo, then again at the handle... Okay, two letters matched, so:

_ _A_ _ _I_ __

It took her a while to come up with an idea, but 'Raditz' sounded kind of... _hard_ , and it seemed to be a short name, so maybe..?

_R A D I T Z_

Yeah, that was quite possible. And if Raditz's name was on the handle of _his_ gun... Hoo boy, investigator Bulma Briefs was definitely on the roll! But... how the hell had Raditz called Goku..? Uhhh... _'Kakarot'_ , or something..? And how the fuck should she spell it??? Cacarot? Kakarot? She scrolled up the photo of Raditz's gun... _Naah_ , never mind – 'k' or 'c', neither of the letters was used in the words that were written on the barrel. She quickly scribbled:

_K A K A R O T [ or: C A C A R O T ]_

And now, the longest part – six words from the barrel. Once again, she stared at the screen for a while, and then started writing:

 

_ _I _ _     _ R A _ _ **–**     _ I _ _ T     _ _ _ _     **–**    D I _     _ R O _ D_

 

Well, that wasn't much... Though she could see that some of the missing letters occurred in more than one word – for example, the last letter of the first word was the same as the last letter of the second and fifth word, and... Shit, she should probably try and mark them somehow...

 

_[ _ ] I ( _ ) { _ }     _ R A ( _ ) { _ } **–**     _ I _ _ T    _ { _ } [ _ ] [ _ ]    **–**     D I { _ }     _ R O _ D_

 

“Oh, for crying out loud!” Bulma shouted, reaching for a cigarette. Yes, she was a genius, but she fucking _hated_ playing hangman with a passion... She glanced at the clock.

 

11 AM. The best time to pop over to her parents for a quick lunch.

 

\- - -

_(*) That's Latin: Eurōus - eastern, socius - united, regio - country (took it from a dictionary – I don't know Latin)._  
_(**) “Hunger” by Of Monsters And Men – obviously, I don't own._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N no. 2:** Of course, I don't have anything against police officers – poor Bulma was just frustrated!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, she was _not_ going to let him intimidate her. She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled, casually flipping the ash into the ashtray. “Yes. But don't take it personally - I just want to be 100% sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A BIG THANK YOU to everyone who read/commented/left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked this story! You bring a huuuge smile to my face :) This update is waaay overdue, but I finally have two days for myself (I like my job - very much, actually - but _damn_ , it can be a real bitch sometimes).

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 13**

“Sugarplum, I'm _sooo_ happy that you invited your boys to stay with us!” Mrs Briefs exclaimed with glee, giving her daughter a quick smile and disappearing in the pantry. Bulma heard her rummaging through the numerous shelves and drawers - probably in search of jam or homemade peanut butter, because there was just no way that her mom was planning to serve biscuit muffins without additional goodies. Well, she was right – a few seconds later Mrs Briefs emerged from the pantry, her arms loaded with jars.

Bulma just shook her head and rushed to help her. “Mom, it wouldn't hurt you to just _ask_ for help, you know?” she said playfully, rolling her eyes and setting the jars on the counter.

“I know, baby. And I love you too, but” - she giggled and fondly bopped Bulma on the nose - “look who's talking!”

“Oh, _come on_ , moom!” Bulma said in mock indignation. She knew perfectly well what her mother had in mind, but it was _not_ a good moment for this discussion, so she busied herself with opening the jars. “Ugh... I don't think I'll be able to open this one,” she groaned, pointing at the peanut butter.

Her mother sent her a knowing look – oh, of course, she just _had to_ see right through her – but didn't push the subject further. “Leave it, honey, I'll just ask our darling Piccolo for help,” she giggled once again, apparently coming back to her usual skittish attitude.

Bulma's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “ _Darling Piccolo_ , you say..? Well, that's - ”

“ - absolutely great, I know!” Mrs Briefs cut in, completely ignoring the uncertainty in Bulma's voice. Yeah, her pixilated mom was back. “Such a nice, young man! I have no idea why you waited so long to introduce him to us!”

Bulma knew - but she wasn't planning to share this story with her mother. “Yeah, he was just busy and - “

“ _Oooh_ , he most certainly was!” Mrs Briefs said evocatively and laughed, sounding more like a teenage girl than a woman in her mid-forties. “I couldn't find any clothes for him, so your father brought some bigger pants and shirts from Capsule, but they were gray, and it's not really the best color for him, so I went shopping and found...”

Bulma nodded absentmindedly, tuning her mother out (because yes, she liked talking about clothes, but to an extent, while Mrs Briefs was a complete sucker for fashion) and focusing on arranging the muffins on a huge plate. Frankly speaking, she wasn't surprised that her mother couldn't find any clothes for Piccolo - he was taller than any of her friends, standing at about 6'5”, and he would most certainly look ridiculous in their garments. It took her a while to recall what exactly Piccolo was wearing yesterday, but sure enough - gray sweatpants and gray Capsule Corp. shirt. But today...? She really had no -

“...and I could tell that he appreciated my little gesture. You've seen how _good_ he looks in his new shirt, right?” - Mrs Briefs paused for a second, nodded vigorously and continued without even looking at Bulma - “Purple was a great idea, really. I know that only his belt was purple, but I had a feeling that he likes this color, and...”

Oooh, of course, purple shirt and black pants. Bulma chuckled silently, realizing that her mother was, indeed, right – Piccolo left his jacket at Roshi's, but it was most certainly dark purple. And she remembered that Goku used to talk her ear off about how Piccolo's _'always wearing_ _the same clothes'_ – brown boots, black and white camo pants, military green shirts and dark purple coats or biker jackets. True, it seemed unconventional, but she vaguely recalled that Roshi mentioned something about dark purple being one of the national colors of the United Republic of Namek, Piccolo's homeland. Well, that made sense, though...

_Dark purple_ , huh..?

“ _Hooney_ , are you listening?”

Bulma's head whipped around. “Uhhh... I kind of spaced out. Sorry, mom,” she smiled girlishly, earning a warm look from her mother. “I should probably let the guys know that the dessert is ready, hm?”

Her mother just nodded and started arraying the plates and jars on the trolley.

\- - -

“So, everything is settled then?” Bulma asked, looking at Roshi.

“Yes, Tien and Chiaotzu will be here in two days, and Tien said they are going to stop by at Korin's to buy a hefty amount of senzu leaf,” he replied, taking off his glasses and cleaning them on his shirt.

Piccolo's eyes immediately narrowed, “ _Please_ , just don't tell me it's a magical herb from some quack...”

“Heh, maybe not magical, but it sure is useful,” Krillin chimed in. “In fact, if I remember correctly, Goku gave you a bit of his ointment after the tournament, hmm?”

“Yes, but -” Piccolo suddenly straightened up and nodded. “Oh, I see. That _'Senzu leaf'_ was one of the ingredients.”

Krillin clicked his tongue, “Yup, spot-on. And Korin's not your usual quack or herbalist – I mean, he _is_ a herbalist, but he's a doctor, in the first place. Retired, but still.”

“Whatever,” - Piccolo shrugged - “just go on.”

“Umm, yeah... So, I'm taking the Smith & Wesson lookalike with me, and leaving you this freaking riddle in exchange,” Bulma said, pointing towards the piece of paper laying on the nearby table. “Really, this hangman shit seemed fun only at the beginning, but I'm at the end of my rope when it comes to wordplay,” she sighed and lit up a cigarette. She knew she could have found or created a program to deal with it, but they all agreed that she should rather focus on the armband - especially considering her latest revelations. “But you can give it to my father. I talked with him after lunch, you know, explained a few things, and he's of course willing to help.”

The men nodded in response, though one of them seemed to be looking at Bulma a bit more intently - she felt like he was trying to guess what she was thinking about.

“ _What_?” she asked stoutly, throwing her hands in the air.

“I should ask you the same question,” Piccolo replied, his voice firm. “Something _bothering_ you?”

“Well...,” she started, fully aware that she'd been glancing at his dark purple shirt for the past ten or fifteen minutes. _'Man up, Briefs'_ she chastised herself, looking straight at Piccolo. “Just thinking about your _national_ _colors_.” Hearing that, Krillin and Roshi visibly tensed.

“Green, white and dark purple,” Piccolo stated, leaning slightly forward in his armchair. “But I assume that the first one doesn't spark your interest?”

Oh, she was _not_ going to let him intimidate her. She took a long drag on her cigarette and exhaled, casually flipping the ash into the ashtray. “Yes. But don't take it personally - I just want to be 100% sure.”

She didn't need to explain what she had in mind.

They eyed each other for a few seconds, and then, just like that, Piccolo shook his head let out a short, almost amused laugh. “I have to admit, you've earned some points in my book for that stunt,” he said, leaning back. “But the answer is: no, I don't know any more about the shooting range or the car than you do. If you want to, you can go to Namek and see for yourself. And I can assure you, I am...” - he paused and reached for a cigarette - “... I _was_ just an exception to the rule. The Namekians are not genetically inclined to killing.”

Bulma nodded slowly, giving Piccolo the once-over. She could refuse to believe him, but something told her that he wasn't lying. She thought about Goku and his uncanny ability to distinguish misguided people ( _'lost souls'_ , as he often referred to them) from the really evil ones, and she decided to trust his judgment - not for the first time. “Thank you,” she smiled lightly, barely restraining a chuckle at Krillin's 'what-the-hell?' expression. “I know you understand my motives.”

Piccolo nodded back and opened his mouth to -

“Sweetie, Yamcha's here!” Mrs Briefs appeared in the living room with a tray of fresh biscuits. “Good thing I prepared a bit more!” she smiled, swiftly setting the plates on the table and disappearing in the hallway.

Bulma rose up from her armchair and looked out the window, just in time to see Yamcha's silver Hilux driving through the gate and pulling up into the parking lot. She was actually glad to see him – that meant that he had cooled off after their morning argument, and she certainly preferred that to discovering that he'd been sitting and sulking at home (which would probably lead to another spat).

The lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll on her. As tough as she was, right now she just needed a hug. She needed _closeness_ , and – despite their problems as a couple – Yamcha was able to provide her that. Even if she knew that it wouldn't feel any different from hugging Goku or Krillin.

Damn it, sometimes she really _hated_ being a woman – why did she have to be so full of contradictions..?

“We should probably call ChiChi to let her know that we're going to the hospital. Krillin, be a doll and lend ya old teacher your phone, hmm?” Roshi suggested, stretching lazily on the sofa and lightly poking Krillin's thigh with his toe.

Krillin immediately shot up, screwing his face in mock-disgust. “Geeez, alright, wait! I left in in the kitchen! Just don't _ever_ touch me with your feet again, it's _gross_!” he yelled and waddled towards the door, muttering something along the lines of _'old spoiled pensioners'_.

Bulma let out a very unladylike snort and was about to say something, but she noticed that Piccolo rose from his seat. “You're not going?” she asked.

“I'll pass. I need to practice my aim.”

Having said that, he headed towards the backyard - no doubt to CC's private shooting range, though Bulma couldn't really think of any sensible way of holding the gun while nursing four broken fingers and a twisted arm.

\- - -

The rest of the day went by quickly and uneventfully – Goku was, of course, thrilled that ' _there's finally something concrete to train for!'_ (and they didn't have the heart to pull him down from cloud nine and emphasize that for now it seemed rather like _trying_ to find and fight an invisible opponent). There was also one more reason for Goku's excellent mood: it turned out that Bulma's father called him a few minutes before the whole group arrived at the hospital to ask if he would be interested in testing out a new method of rehabilitation and a new medicine – and both of those things could possibly help him in recovering much faster. Needles to say, after hearing that and learning that Tien and Chiaotzu were going to bring senzu leaf, Goku had almost jumped out of the bed and ran straight to the gym.

Bulma and Yamcha arrived home a bit earlier than ChiChi and Gohan, and decided to do something they haven't done in a long time: prepare supper together (of course, nothing even close to ChiChi's or Mrs. Briefs' 'more-than-you-can-eat' feasts).

And, surprisingly, everything seemed almost... _normal_. No arguments, stupid comments or petty reproaches - they just spent a pleasant, peaceful evening, the two of them preparing food, then sharing it and talking with their two guests, for once not saying a single word about photos, surveillance tapes, foreign data or weapons.

Bulma was in no shape to come back to her office, but she did check the progress of translation and decryption before going to bed - just to discover that the whole process needed a few more hours. It seemed to be stuck on one of the folders, and she couldn't wait to discover how much data did this little piece of tech _really_ contain. Roshi and Piccolo promised to contact their informants and old acquaintances and pump them for any news concerning the ESR, foreign intelligence activities or Dr Gero. They were also responsible for supervising Krillin's and Yamcha's training and providing Tien and Chiaotzu with every detail of the case. They still weren't quite sure who they were dealing with, so there was not much sense in organizing a manhunt or doing anything rash and unconsidered.

Things were slowly moving forward, but all in all, Bulma could go to sleep in good conscience...

...but not with full peace of mind.

Something was _off._ No shit hitting the fan..? No 'bang' and fireworks..? Nuh-uh, this serene atmosphere probably wasn't meant to last.

As her father always told her, it was only the calm before the storm.

 

\- - -

 

_Meanwhile, in the eastern outskirts of West City..._

 

“So, we ready to rumble?”

“...”

“C'mon, ya know I'll handle things just fine!”

“Just like two days ago? Like a fucking _moron_ who does not know the meaning of _'do it inconspicuously'_?!”

“Naaah, wasn't that - ”

In a flash, his companion's hand was firmly clenched around his throat, effectively preventing him from finishing the sentence.

“ _Sakātu_ _(*)_ _,_ ” the other man drawled, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper. “For now, we wait. We lay low. And then...” - he smirked wickedly, tightening his hold for a second before abruptly letting go - “...then we start killing.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _(*) That's Akkadian (an extinct language that was spoken in ancient Mesopotamia) : sakātu - to be silent, keep quiet, shut up (took it from a dictionary – I don't know Akkadian)._


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bulma prepared herself for the worst, for something graphic, yet all she could see was debris. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of square yards of debris – and nothing more, not even a single shell of a building looming in the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N no.1:** A BIG THANK YOU to everyone who read/commented/left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked this story! I have to stop using the word “soon” while referring to updates – I'm pretty certain that I totally jinxed my plans... This chapter was supposed to be out five days ago, but guess what? I ended up working overtime, and I didn't want to post anything while being in zombie-mode, so I just kept on retyping and adding little bits, sleeping and praying for the weekend.  
>  \- - -  
>  **Edit:** 1) new summary (ch1/the whole story) - thank you very, very much **Artephile** for sharing your thoughts!, 2) rehashed title

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 14**

“Damn, I look and feel like shit...” Bulma whined, scrutinizing her reflection in the mirror. Puffy eyes, ashen face, impossibly tangled, frizzy locks... She was tired, alright. So much that she didn't even brush her hair last night, just went to bed straight after drying it with a towel - and that was precisely why her hair resembled a haystack. Oh, well - she could always moisten it a bit, apply the conditioner, then give it a quick brush... Or maybe it was high-time to visit her hairdresser..?

Firstly, she was still waiting for the wretched program to finish its job: the time indicator turned out to be as accurate as Roshi's aim straight after knocking down a bottle of vodka, so she changed the progress bar display format - and now it was stuck at 99%. Secondly, she knew she wouldn't be able to focus on anything else, even something as simple as doing the laundry. And, thirdly: she needed some time for herself. Yamcha had baseball practice, ChiChi and Gohan went to the hospital, Roshi, Krillin and Piccolo were no doubt busy with training, so a quick trim seemed like a really good idea on how to pass the time.

Bulma tucked a stray lock of hair behind her left ear. She kept her hair parted on the left, but the parting seemed to be all over the place lately and there was just no way in hell to keep it -

“...in the same spot, huh?” she whispered, smiling broadly and casually stroking her earlobe.

Yeah, she should _totally_ do that.

\- - -

Two hours, one earring and at least twelve inches of hair later, Bulma was sitting in her office, barely resisting the urge to scream.

100%.

One _fucking_ hundred percent.

Now it should be only a matter of seconds, maybe minutes... Her gut was clenched so tight that she didn't even think about _attempting_ to finish her coffee. Besides, something told her that she would spill it on herself – or, worse still, on her computer. And she certainly didn't need -

“Fuck YEAH!” she screamed, immediately getting her hooks on the keyboard.

Shortly after she was scrolling through the newly decrypted folder, awed by the sheer number of files – more precisely, images of documents, each one named in a similar fashion: a set of numbers followed by an underscore and three letters: FFC. The numbers certainly had some kind of meaning, but what was the deal with the weird abbreviation? 'Flexible flat cable' was the first thing that came into her mind, but she knew that it was _not_ the right answer – especially taking into account the folder name: 'FFC_0003'... She made a mental note to check that later, scrolled up to the first file and clicked 'open' - only to see that the first page was _blank_.

“Oh, _come on_...” she muttered, clearly annoyed. Judging by the file sizes, they _had to_ contain _something –_ a few lines of text, maybe a small photo or -

_Waaait._

She zoomed in the bottom right side of the page – she almost missed it, but now she could clearly see: 'FFC_0003' written in a simple, though very small font. Rather unusual, but she was not intending to study other people's editing style – she needed _answers_ , and she was sure she was going to find them in these files. So, without more ado, she moved to the next page.

Huh, this was _good_.

It was a military document (a report, maybe..?) from fifteen years ago, not so different from any other military papers she had seen in her life, though... Oh, of course: no names, ranks, not even a proper address – just a short 'FROM: HQ', 'TO: FFC_0003', 'RE: 125/XM/W87'. Well, at least she could infer that the freaking 'FFC_0003' was a code name (or something like that), and the same probably went for '125/XM/W87'. It still was not clear whether it was an order, a report or a memo, so she lit up a cigarette and started reading.

The first paragraph was nothing special, just a simple movement order - date of departure, amount of time provided to complete the task, population of 'W87', deadline for submitting the report, but the next one...

Bulma could feel the anger and disgust bubbling up inside her.

She wanted to shout. Yell. _Scream_ bloody murder - but her vocal chords failed her, so she whispered only, “Damn bastards...”, and heavily leaned back in her chair. A second later she started laughing – it was a nervous, almost hysterical laughter, but she didn't see any other way: it had to be just another sick, tasteless and completely fucked-up joke. It wasn't for real. _Couldn't be_ for real. She groaned and swallowed a lump that suddenly appeared in her throat. Maybe it was just another code..? Because: _'Obliterate W78. The target is the last to die. Bring a souvenir.'_ couldn't be a _genuine_ order, right?

And what the fuck did they mean by _'_ bring a souvenir'? Damn, it _had to_ be a bluff.

She scrolled to the next page, just to see three short paragraphs and some kind of a footnote on the bottom. She read the text once. Twice. Three times. At the end of the fourth time, she knew the report by heart, though she would love to forget every single word as fast as it was humanly possible. She'd read _a ton_ of reports. She wrote them herself, so she was mindful of the specific style of military documents. She could deal with the lack of emotion, the brevity – that was typical.

But who the _hell_ hit upon an idea of putting _that_ sentence in what seemed to be an official document???

They used some kind of an explosive, so the first part: _'More powerful than the previous charge -'_ seemed justified, but the second was just...

_'-tears people into pieces. Quite a few body parts found five miles from the center of explosion.'_

God, someone seemed pretty fucking _proud_ of it!

The report was written fifteen years ago, so she really hoped she was _not_ going to meet the author. And the fucking _postscript_? Was there really _anyone_ who thought it was _funny_? Oh, for fuck's sake...

_'The target completely lost his head. He will not be able to collect himself, so I left him to rest._  
_In pieces._  
_And if you want a souvenir, go fetch it yourself._

_1134206'_

The numbers didn't make any sense, but right now she didn't even want to think about the psycho's name – or code name. She still couldn't fathom _how_ someone had managed to varnish the fact that 320 people had _died_? That a whole village or a small town just _vanished_? There wasn't any war going on anywhere in the world fifteen years ago. Sure, some countries had their problems (her homeland included, seeing as that was precisely when the previous government hired Piccolo, then barely twenty, as their mercenary), yet there were no terrorist attacks, no fucked-up mass murderers, rampage killers or suicide bombers. Or _any_ bombers, for that matter. Murders, assassinations – yes, still happened, but... _320 citizens?_ Fuck, maybe Gero really had a finger in _this_ pie? His men were known for cruelty. They were insane, brainwashed, _programmed_ to kill, and maybe this was his way of... ugh, _training_ them, before he decided to strike a few years ago..? Come to think of it... Maybe he had some kind of a deal with the ESR?

But still... it didn't make sense. Not entirely, anyway.

She knew that reports were _not_ Red Ribbon's thing. The majority of Gero's 'soldiers' were too far gone in their insanity to even remember how to write or read, and Gero himself preferred verbal communication. _Damn..._ Perhaps she really was overthinking? It was an old report – and likely had nothing to do with what was going on now. Current assassins or peepers for the government probably had access to various documents, maybe they just needed it for... Well, for _something_.

Bulma shook her head and nervously glanced around the room. _Shit._ She could no longer pretend that the fourth page didn't exist. She took a few deep breaths, steeled herself and slowly scrolled down, covering her face with her left hand and looking at the screen through her fingers. It was a silly thing to do, but she didn't give a damn. Yes, she'd seen her fair share of disturbing photographs, taken straight after explosions or at various crime scenes (though not the most gory ones), but who knew what kind of sick shit was she about to see _now_?

For a moment she stared only at the top-left corner of the screen, but then her eyes started carefully scanning everything that was visible between her outstretched digits. It wasn't a pretty sight, but so far everything resembled any other scenery after a huge explosion. And that one _had to_ be huge, seeing as the place was literally leveled to the ground. Bulma prepared herself for the worst, for something graphic _,_ yet all she could see was debris. Hundreds, probably even thousands of square yards of debris – and nothing more, not even a single shell of a building looming in the horizon. It was distressing, but nothing she couldn't handle, so she lowered her hand...

...and immediately regretted her decision.

“F-fucking... _barbarians_...” she whispered, rapidly closing the document. No amount of self-control was going to keep her from throwing up, so she leaned over the wastebasket and did just that. She wanted to get rid of this horrible image along with the contents of her stomach, but ten minutes later, as she was rinsing her mouth in the bathroom, she still had it before her eyes.

 

A severed head. Mangled, mutilated and eyeless _human_ head laying on a pile of rubble, just as if someone had thrown it there right before taking the picture.

_That_ was their fucking _souvenir_.

\- - -

It took Bulma some time to get over the shock and disgust, but she bit the bullet and went back to reading. Of course, it didn't hurt that this time she decided to bring herself some liquor - gin and tonic seemed like a good way to soothe her upset stomach. And mind.

Several hours later she was still sitting in her office, though now she was mulling over the newly acquired information. She lost count on how many people's deaths were mentioned in these files - in fact, she was better off _not_ knowing the exact number. Murders, explosions, executions, thievery, infiltration, espionage, gathering intel... It was like a freaking _lexicon_ of crime and depravity. She didn't even try to play brave and risk seeing something even more disturbing - she just gave up on searching for photographs. Fortunately, every document was managed in a similar way, so it wasn't that hard to tell whether or not there was something more than text on the next page. And, speaking of text, she noticed something interesting: reports from twelve to fifteen years ago were longer, full of twisted sentences, comparisons and postscripts, while the other ones seemed almost... _normal_. Substantive, short, without unnecessary annotations - as if written by a different person. There was only one 'but': the same set of numbers under every report – a signature, she supposed.

Bulma sighed and downed the remnants of her drink. All in all, she did a good job. During short breaks between reading the documents she busied herself with less depressing things, such as translating the symbols they had found on the gun and the knife. Just as she suspected, the inscription read 'FFC' – an abbreviation she was starting to really, _really_ hate, and not only because she still had no idea what it stood for. She also took her time to examine the armband more closely - she didn't notice that before, but someone had re-soldered a few circuits and made some changes to the GPS module's programming code. From what she could see, the purpose was to prevent the armband from sending location data to any other external device – with two exceptions, marked as 'TS1' and 'TS2'. Said modification was the cause of the overvoltage, but that wasn't as important as the fact that she found out the frequency on which the damn thing operated (and _yes_ , the electromagnetic field was strong enough to finish off her photocell) – now she had to find a way to track down 'TS1' and 'TS2'. _'Just you wait, fuckers...'_ Bulma thought as she poured herself another glass of gin, this time without any tonic. Despite drinking almost the whole bottle by herself, she was only a little tipsy – she guessed that the adrenaline coursing through her veins had efficiently prevented her from getting utterly wasted. She decided to reschedule her plans and take care of the tracking tomorrow. Given the fact that Yamcha was spending the night out of the house - he called her after the practice, saying something about training with Krillin, then crashing at his teammate's flat and coming back at about dinnertime tomorrow - and the Sons were already comfortably accommodated at her parent's house, she was going to have the whole Thursday morning and some part of the afternoon for herself.

Huh... Truth be told, she was _used to_ being alone. Friends/family gatherings aside, she didn't have a problem with spending the majority of her time by herself, she just didn't like feeling ignored - and that was what really bothered her about Yamcha's excursions. Then there was also his carefree approach to the fact that they were living together... They had both agreed that she was going to be the one responsible for making payments (and remembering about payment deadlines), but that didn't mean that he was free to simply _forget_ that such things existed... But he did, and she ended up not only remembering about everything, but also _knowing_ everything: starting from technical revision dates and finishing on a loosened doorknob or blown out light bulb. She had pointed it out quite a few times during the first few months after the move, but then she decided to blow it off – she shouldn't, but she wanted them to get along. Yamcha gave her random sums of money, sometimes once, sometimes twice a month, not even curious about the actual cost of anything. Money was not a problem - she honestly couldn't care less about how much (or even if) he chipped in, she was just angry at his flippancy. Hell, he _still_ had trouble remembering where were the electric fuses, even though they popped out every two months and she always made it obvious that _he_ was the one who should pop them back into place – of course, _if_ he happened to be around. Yes, she could remodel the wiring, but: a) they had emergency power supply, b) she didn't want to do that, just to spite Yamcha and force him into doing _something_.

He was not always like that, though. He grew up in a foster family - according to his own words: _'a nice couple, both painters and living in good conditions, but absolutely hooked on smoking pot',_ so sometimes (especially since he was eight or nine years old) they were _too_ chilled-out to notice the passing of time, and Yamcha had to take care of himself: cook, do the laundry, get ready for school. At the age of fourteen he started rebelling – taunting his teachers, skipping classes, getting into fights - and then he simply ran away from home, taking along only his tent, a few changes of clothes and his almost non-existent savings. Needless to say, about the same time he started stealing things here and there - and actually became quite _known_ for his skills... Well, at least among the local demimonde. Bulma met Yamcha two years later, when he was enrolled into Roshi's school, and - despite his initial awkwardness around people - it didn't take long for them to start going out. He was a good soldier and an important part of their unit's baseball team, so nobody actually believed him when he said that he was planning to leave the army and start playing baseball professionally – that is, until he did just that, precisely on the day of his twenty-first birthday. For some time he even shared a rented apartment with two other ex-soldiers, and while Bulma was always there to support him financially, he didn't really need it – he was doing _fine._

Ugh... She couldn't help but to think that maybe, just maybe, she was the one who kind of... _spoiled_ Yamcha - and forced both of them to assume roles that they were not cut out for. When they started living together in her parent's house, she felt like she should act a little bit more... for lack of a better word, _protective._ She was by no means a typical housewife (and was sure she never will be), but she _did_ try to take some lessons from her mother. She made sure to prepare a simple ( _really_ simple) dinner or supper from time to time or just order a take-out from Yamcha's favorite restaurant, just to make him feel nice when he came home. And that seemed to do the trick, because he repaid her with similar actions – at least for some time, because the idyllic bliss was not meant to last. The masks were off, everything started slowly falling apart, and now here they were... They started rubbing each other the wrong way - worse than before, and now it became painfully obvious that they were just too _different_ to -

_'Whoa, that's_ not _what you should be thinking about',_ Bulma mentally scolded herself, realizing that she spaced out for quite a few minutes. And, even worse, she had a weird, unpleasant feeling that she missed something, that there was something that she was planning to add to her 'to-do' list...

“Naaah, Briefs, that's just the booze talkin'...”, she shook her head and trained her eyes on the screen. One of the creepy orders contained a link to an external database, and she would be stupid to not try hacking into it – especially now, after deciphering the odd code/language that was used in the documents. Who knew, maybe it could also be useful when it came to the fucking Register of Vehicles? She still had a hard time with getting over the fact that her previous attempts were _futile._

With renewed motivation, she clenched her teeth and started furiously typing on the keyboard.

\- - -

Bulma cracked the password to the ESR's Register of Vehicles within the next hour. The SUV had been registered in the name of LFCF, a shipping company with State Treasury participation, but - try as she might - she couldn't dig up _any_ dirt on it. She had a feeling that the whole company was just a front, but she needed a _proof_ \- not loose ends and assumptions. She was surprised to discover that she _knew_ both the brand and the model of the SUV – it was quite popular in the ESR, but this particular vehicle turned out to be a custom-made, totally revamped version, and she managed to find only two similar cars in the whole Register, each one belonging to the same shipping company.

“Pff, stinks to high heaven...” she muttered and moved to another task at hand: gaining access to the database from the link. She was hoping to find  _only_ dirt - preferably on the whole ESR, not just the LFCF.

Two hours and a dozen or so 'ACCESS DENIED' error messages later, Bulma's phone went off.

“Krills, everything alright?” she asked, immediately thinking about every possible reason as to why he was calling her near midnight.

“ _Heh, everybody's fine, but I could definitely use some -”_

“Oh give me a _break_ , you old degenerate!” she snapped, confident that she was about to hear _'some of your feminine warmth'_ or something like that. “Honestly, Roshi, start using your own phone! And if you're calling to-”

Roshi promptly cut her off: _“Wait, wait, Bulma, just don't hang up! I was going to say 'sleep', really - no 'feminine warmth' bullshit this time.”_

_Bullshit..?_ Uh-oh... Now she was starting to get seriously worried, “What happened?”

“ _Well, we're fine... But unfortunately I can't say the same about twenty employees of Azuma (*) Hills Airport.” - _Bulma blanched, knowing full-well in what situations he used this kind of wording. - “ _Piccolo received a word from one of his contacts, there was a huge explosion just a few hours ago - the causes are not yet known, but none of the airport's staff survived, and it's possible that-”_

She gasped and tuned out his next words. Azuma Hills was a small, private airport located on the Shimazuma (**) island, the easternmost territory belonging to their continent.

Just a few miles from the maritime and air border of the ESR.

“Fucking hell!” she yelled, not really paying attention to the fact that Roshi was still talking.

“ _Uhh, Bulma..? You weren't -”_

“Yes, yes, wasn't listening,” she replied distractedly, reaching for a cigarette, “but I know – I _think_ I know who's behind that, I mean - no names or anything like that so far, but I read all the files - and believe me, there are some fucking _horrible_ things there, and I've just really _had it_ with coincidences, and that's a pretty fucking _major_ -”

“ _Hey, hey, hey! Not so fast! Who? What files? What do you know?”_

“Just... Just wait 'till tomorrow, I'll explain everything - I'm in the middle of a rather complicated _word game_ , if you catch my drift.”

“ _M-hmm, crystal clear. Listen, right now they are preparing a statement for the media - but you know how it is, don't expect anything substantive... I'm not really sure that the explosion has something to do with our mess, but Piccolo told me to call you – he seems pretty certain, and now your reaction... Well, anyway, Piccolo's contact will be in touch, so I say let's wait for something more specific.”_

“Okay, okay...” - Bulma paused, realizing that she'd been nervously pacing around the room, leaving trails and little piles of cigarette ash on the floor. “What about the register of take-offs and landings? They had to store the backup copies-”

“ _Bulma, they know what they're looking for,”_ Roshi replied calmly. _“And there's no need to help them just yet,”_ he added, causing Bulma to snort quietly and mumble _'yeah, yeah, no hacking'_. _“So, see you tomorrow?”_

“Umm, around... I don't know, ten-thirty, eleven? Maybe earlier, we'll see.”

“ _All right. Take care, Bulma.”_

“You too, Prof, good night.”

Bulma ended the call and returned back to her desk, desperately trying to calm down her thoughts. She knew that they were dealing with dangerous people – she'd seen the photos, the files, the weapons, she'd seen Goku's and Piccolo's injuries and knew about the tracking, but up to this point everything seemed somewhat... _less palpable_..? And now shit got real.

_Too_ real for her liking.

 

 

\- - -

_ (*)  That's Japanese: Azuma – east (yet another language I don't know but decided to use). _

_ (**)  Japanese again: Google Translate told me that 'eastern island' = 'azuma no shima', so I came up with Shimazuma. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N no. 2:** I'd love to tell you what's going to happen in the next chapter... Let's just say that planned or not, some meetings are just unavoidable.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yamcha's scream echoed inside the car and they were both jerked forward as he slammed on the brakes. Bulma just squeezed her eyes shut and shrieked, vaguely aware of the horrible screech of tires as the car came to an abrupt halt, although a split second later she heard a much, _much_ more disturbing sound: the sound of something hitting the hood.
> 
> _Hard._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** A BIG **THANK YOU** to everyone who read/commented/left kudos/subscribed/bookmarked this story! And equally big **I'M SORRY** for disappearing for nearly a month – I'm alive (though definitely in zombie-mode – _thank you, overtime..._ ) and I've been writing, retyping and editing at every chance I get, but I simply had to refrain myself from checking my e-mail and logging in to AO3. Weird, I know - but I'm a freaking master of putting pressure on myself, and I would have run myself ragged just to keep up with everything and update faster (and then I would have been angry with myself for writing shit or doing something stupid at work). I'm not proud of myself for disappearing, but I'm glad that I've managed to hammer into my thick skull that sometimes I just have to slow down a bit and cut myself some slack – and hey, I'm still having fun writing! Sooo, enough of my rambling: I hope you will enjoy the two chapters I cooked up :)

_ Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only. _

 

** CHAPTER 15 **

Bulma yawned loudly and stretched her aching limbs, for the first time noticing the digits displayed in the corner of her computer's screen. 9 AM. _'Great...'_ she thought, heading towards the kitchenette to prepare herself a much-needed (though definitely not first) mug of coffee. Considering the amount of alcohol she'd consumed, she _really_ shouldn't have been up all night. She should have gone to bed like the responsible, _reasonable_ woman she was... 

Correction: _sometimes_ was. 

She'd been so desperate in her attempts to hack into the database, that she might or might not have crossed the line between 'intensity' and 'insanity' - and she should have known better, really. Trying to crack the password and break into the server simultaneously from two computers certainly had not been her brightest idea. She'd noticed the telltale commands on one of the screens just in time and ended the connection before their freaking firewall monitoring software kicked in – at least she hoped she had. In any case, she'd done everything to cover up her attempts and changed the tactics, leaving the tedious task of looking for vulnerabilities and figuring out the encryption scheme to one of her more advanced pentesting tools. Then she'd reprogrammed one of her old PNDs to work at the same frequency as the armband, but it wasn't enough to track those wretched bastards down (not that she was surprised, just mildly frustrated), so it took her another three or four hours to come up with a way to pinpoint their location...

...just to finally discover that one was _'unavailable'_ and the other seemed to be using some kind of a blocking device in order to hide his location.

And that was precisely why Bulma decided to take a break and just focus on her coffee. She knew how those devices worked, she just had to be patient ( _again_ – and she _hated_ being patient...), leave the PND to scan through the frequency and let her programming take care of the rest. They were lurking around somewhere – she was just temporarily unable to tell _where._

Just then her thoughts went back to Shimazuma. She'd seen the photos - they were all over the Internet, but true to Roshi's words, the public opinion was left with a short, token statement, _'for the sake of the investigation'._ The images were, of course, unnerving, but she couldn't help but to compare the landscape to the one she'd seen in the report. Hopefully, she was going to get some more details from Piccolo and Roshi – which reminded her that there was no point in sitting idly and she might as well start getting ready.

Forty minutes later Bulma was back in her office, though this time she came there only to grab her cigarettes, mobile phone and - primarily - the PND. She headed to her 'Blue Baby', as she fondly dubbed her Mercedes, but stopped as soon as her hand landed on the chrome door handle. She wasn't wasted, just a bit lightheaded, but she still had too much alcohol flowing in her bloodstream. She needed a ride.

“Fucking... had to land... at the bottom...,” Bulma mumbled, frantically digging through her bag in search for her mobile phone. She groaned in exasperation and was just about to start scattering the contents of the bag all over the hood of her car, but something else caught her attention: the familiar _click,_ followed by a silent hum of the sliding gate opener. Yamcha was back – and if she were in the mood to start an argument, she would definitely say something along the lines of _'wow, you're_ finally _going to be useful!'_ , but she simply signaled him to stop. He was supposed to be home later, but at that point she was just glad that she didn't have to take a taxi or call any of her friends - or CC, and then wait for somebody to pick her up. In a matter of seconds she closed the garage door, switched on the alarm, ran towards the Hilux and climbed into the front passenger seat.

“Hey, Yamcha,” she greeted, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “Care to give me a ride?”

He shot her a bewildered look and blinked a few times before replying, “...H-hi, Bulma-, yeah, I gue-”

“Great,” Bulma cut him off, already buckled up and sprawled comfortably in the seat. “I need to talk with Roshi and Piccolo and I can't really drive, so -” she paused, looking at Yamcha's right hand, which was currently squeezing her left thigh, and then at his face. He seemed to be quite stunned, and she had a pretty good idea _why_. 

“What do you mean _you can't_? Bulma, it's like, 10 AM! Don't tell me you've been-” 

“What, drinking?” Bulma finished the sentence for him and let out a small snort. “So what? I'm an adult - I _needed_ a drink, so I _got_ myself a drink, what's wrong with that?” 

Yamcha just shook his head, closed the gateway and started backing up the car, “Nothing, Bulma, nothing at all...”

“But?” she prompted, clearly seeing that he had something more to add to their conversation – and, once again, she could probably guess what it was. In three, two, one...

He exhaled loudly, “What _the hell_ possessed you to cut your hair” - he gestured to the left side of her head - “ _that_ way?” he asked, his voice a strange mix of disappointment and anger. At that Bulma started laughing – a bit scornfully, a bit incredulously, but most of all _loudly._

Okay, so maybe she _was_ a bit tipsy - but she just couldn't believe this guy... If it wasn't for the gin, caffeine and adrenaline combo, she would have been yelling by now, but all she could do was laugh. _Damn_ , was he really scolding her for cutting _her_ hair? She went through a _million_ different hairstyles, and not once did he say something like _that –_ just because she'd kept her hair waist length for the past three or four years didn't mean that she was planning to leave it that way... She wanted a change - so what if now her hair was shoulder-length and shaved to ¼ inch on her left side? It wasn't even a _full_ shave – it extended only to the ear, just deep enough to give her a different look and solve the 'parting-all-over'the-place' issue. _'High-time for him to notice the earring...'_ she thought and burst into even more hysterical laughter.

“Seriously, Bulma?” Yamcha sent her a disbelieving look and focused back on the road. “And what's with the earring?”

Bulma just guffawed and started wiping her spittle from the dashboard, “S-sorry, Yams, but...” - she snorted, cleared her throat and forced herself to continue - “...I used to have _six_ earrings and short hair in fifty fucking shades of blue - not counting my natural one - and it somehow didn't stop you from banging me!”

It was Yamcha's turn to snort, “Oh _please_ , Bulma, we were like what, sixteen, seventeen? Don't you think it's a little too late for-”

“JUST SHUT UP!” Bulma yelled, her giggly mood flying out the window. “I don't even wanna know what you were trying to say-, I don't fucking care at all! I did this for myself – _only_ for myself! And I don't give a fuck about _anyone_ else!” she added, slamming her palm on the armrest cover.

Yamcha's fingers squeezed tighter around the steering wheel, but he remained silent for a while. Then, “Good thing you've finally admitted how much you care 'bout me.”

Bulma saw red. 

“Are you fucking _delirious_? I never-, I didn't _mean it_ like that! I don't care what others _think_! As in, about my _appearance_ , for fuck's sake!” she screamed, shooting Yamcha a furious glare. “I'm _very_ fucking _sorry_ for using a mental shortcut! Should've known you wouldn't understand!”

“Oh, of course – 'cause I'm a lowbrow, not a genius, right?” this time he looked really hurt, but Bulma was too far gone in her anger to remember that he often took her words _too_ personally.

“Yes, _of course -_ poor Yamcha, having hang-ups about his intelligence... Don't get all pissy on me-, _geez..._ ” she snorted derisively and folded her arms across her chest, fixing her gaze on her red trainers. She wasn't paying attention to the road, but she hoped that they were getting close to her parent's house – come to think of it, the drive seemed to be -

“FUCKING HELL!” 

Yamcha's scream echoed inside the car and they were both jerked forward as he slammed on the brakes. Bulma just squeezed her eyes shut and shrieked, vaguely aware of the horrible screech of tires as the car came to an abrupt halt, although a split second later she heard a much, _much_ more disturbing sound: the sound of something hitting the hood.

_Hard_. 

At that point Bulma's eyelids involuntarily popped open. There was a small, but noticeable dent in the hood, nothing - and fortunately no one - else, so she immediately turned towards Yamcha. His eyes were as big as saucers.

“Fucking... nutcase...” he muttered, running a hand through his hair and switching off the engine. He just sat there for a while, wondering whether or not Bulma had seen the same - judging by her current expression, she probably hadn't. “You okay, Bulma?”

She blinked a few times and nodded, not really sure if she should yell, cry or keep dumbly staring at him. Eventually, she took a deep breath and decided on the first option. “What the _fuck_ , Yamcha?! A fucking UFO landing on the hood? Why the hell are we even here???” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air and gesturing wildly to their surroundings. They were in a blind alley in the once-industrial district of West City, currently consisting mostly of deserted, scheduled for demolition warehouses and old factories. 

“Well, missed the intersection - shit happens, right?” he replied, his tone an obvious indication that it wasn't entirely _his_ fault. “So I wanted to turn the car around-, and trust me - if I knew about the suicidal psychos runnin' around here, I would-” he paused, seeing that Bulma was about to start yelling again, and immediately clarified, “No, no, no - we didn't hit anyone-, I mean, were pretty close, but no - the guy just appeared out of nowhere, and I didn't have time to do anything else so I hit the brakes-, and I really thought we _were_ going to hit him, you know?, but then he goes and jumps- like a fucking _monkey_ or something, and the next thing I know he's off the hood - and I know some people love the thrill, but...” he tapped his forehead significantly.

Bulma was staring at him, her eyebrows raised, eyes wide. “Huh, yeah... And _fuck,_ jumping on a pickup isn't really-” - she paused, then snorted and shook her head - “Never mind- probably some fucked up punk running away from cops-, I mean, just look around - a freaking playground for hoodlums!” She unbuckled her seat belt and started fumbling in her bag, completely missing Yamcha's somewhat irritated glance. A part of him knew that she probably didn't mean it like that _(again...),_ but another part wondered if maybe she'd said that on purpose, to make a little dig at him about his past.

Bulma found her cigarettes – and, of course, her phone, just because she didn't need it anymore – and left the car. “A quick smoke and then we're getting outta here,” she stated.

Yamcha nodded and made his way to the hood to examine the dent. All in all, it could have been worse – he was just glad that he didn't kill or injure the man, even if it would have been his own damn fault for running out into the street like that... Though, come to think of it, he couldn't quite shake off the feeling that the guy had done that _deliberately –_ but who in their right mind would- 

“Yamcha, you hear that beeping?” Bulma's voice brought him out of his musings.

“Umm, yeah, and..?”

She rolled her eyes and took a drag from her half-smoked cigarette, “No smoking in the car, right? Go and check yourself, it may be ABS or traction control.”

“M-hmm, if you say so...” - he shrugged and went back to the vehicle. Not a second later he leaned over the passenger seat, opened the window and took a hold of her bag, “Nope- it's your phone or something.”

“Oh _come on_ , that's-” just then her eyes widened with sudden realization. “HOLY CRAP!” she screamed, throwing the unfinished cigarette on the ground and startling Yamcha when she abruptly pulled the door open, got into the car and whipped the bag from his hands. This time she had no problems with fishing out what she was looking for – and she damn near passed out when she saw the message displayed on the screen. _Fuck,_ she was good.

She found the bastard.

In a flash, Bulma muted the PND and started rummaging through the glove compartment, “Go get the boys- I don't have the time to explain but-, _damn,_ where's the _fucking_... oh, got it,” - she muttered, taking out Yamcha's battered waist pack and throwing her cigarettes and phone inside - “Just tell them that we've got a situation - and that dad can track my mobile, so – _fuck, come on..._ ”

Yamcha had a hard time getting his head around her. “Where the _hell_ are you going? Just call them and tell them yourself! Not like we're miles away, let's just wait for- Bulma, you even _listening_? I mean-, look at you, acting like-” he stopped short and his eyes widened even more at the sight of the object that Bulma was currently tucking into the waist pack. He grabbed her arms, “A GUN? Are you out of-”

“SHUT UP!” she yelled, fastening the bumbag and wrapping it around her waist. “DON'T call anyone-, it's not - I _don't know_ if it's safe, you understand? And” - she wrenched herself away from him - “I know what I'm doing - I'm a big girl! I _don't_ need you to take care of me! I'm fucking getting on with _everything_ when you're not around, so cut the crap and just _goand.get the.boys._ ” She almost snarled the last few words, but she didn't care if she was rude, cruel or simply a bitch – there was no more time to lose. Without so much as a backward glance, Bulma jumped out of the car and ran towards the narrow passage between two dilapidated buildings. 

That seemed to sober Yamcha up. “Bulma, WAIT!” he shouted and rushed after her, but came to a halt before he even reached the pavement. It wasn't that he couldn't catch up with her – he could and he _would have,_ but for some reason his body was refusing to cooperate. _Shit._ He should have reacted faster - should have forced her to stay and explain, yet he'd been too slow, too stunned and shocked to do anything. Not by her words, as she often spoke without thinking, but by the tone of her voice. She'd never yelled at him with so much malice and resentment before... True, she'd been acting strange lately, but today... Well, today she really outdid herself with all the screaming and thrashing around like a freaking psycho-

_ Psycho. _

“Fuck!” he swore loudly and rushed to the car, cursing himself for his own stupidity. He wanted to be wrong. He _could_ be wrong, though the clenching in his gut told him otherwise. The whole incident, or rather _near accident_ , had lasted no more than twenty, maybe thirty seconds - too short to take a closer look at the man's features... But long enough to remember the only thing that appeared directly in the driver's line of sight.

Namely, his shoes.

 

\- - -

 

Fuck, how much he _hated_ this city... He'd seen countless cities before, but this one was by far the worst. To bright, too colorful, too loud... too _alive,_ especially for his liking, and that was precisely why he had been so hell-bent on staying on the outskirts for as long as possible, and then on finding the less crowded part of the city - which quite fortunately turned out to be completely devoid of colors and conveniently close to their area of interest. Besides, they didn't really have a choice - especially after Nappa's stunt. _'Come on, Vegeta-, won't hurt to try - maybe he's there, ya know he always ends up in strange places,'_ \- Nappa's words, and he still couldn't believe that they had led him to come up with a plan. He didn't _need_ Raditz, but there was always the possibility that his piece of shit scouter had finally packed up for the last time (small wonder, since he loved so much to tuck it into his back pocket) - hence the decision to go to that wretched, shitty-looking place, check the signal and get it over with. But what in the world had possessed him to let Nappa in on his plan? As if actually _listening_ to his suggestion hadn't been enough... He had completely, utterly _humiliated_ himself by wearing that fucking rag and creeping around the hospital, all that to remain faceless – and yes, he'd lost his patience on his way out and socked that wretched doctor, so what? _Fucking_ Nappa had picked him up in their _fucking_ white, rare as hell SUV, sporting his _fucking_ vest, disgustingly pleased with himself and going on about coming early enough to _get out_ in the parking lot for a _fucking_ smoke.

So much for not drawing attention.

Needless to say, Vegeta had made sure that Nappa knew just _how much_ it hurt to try. He had almost killed him that afternoon - he _would have_ killed him, but their little gun-to-temple conversation had been interrupted by the beeping of Vegeta's scouter, and he could bet that Nappa was still thanking his non-existent lucky star for Cui's timing. Besides, they had to be careful – tweaked or not, their scouters still were just a piece of tech, so they switched them on only for short periods of time to check whether or not there had been any movements in their vicinity. Even if the blocking device seemed to be doing its job, there was simply no room for mistakes and senseless plans. Vegeta had nothing to lose, but everything to gain, and he was not going to trust anything - or anyone. Learn to count, and then count only on yourself – it was as simple as that. 

So, when Cui had crept out of his den and turned on his scouter, accidentally saving Nappa from certain death, Vegeta decided to lay low and wait – not his favorite way of dealing with similar situations, but he had to make sure that Cui had no idea about their current location and wasn't about to draft in a whole bunch of Frieza's cocksuckers to hunt them down. He wanted nothing more than to snap the bastard's neck, rip his head off, impale it and use it as a shooting target – not necessarily in this order, and then get the hell out of this city and start ticking some more names off his list. He couldn't care less _why_ Cui had been sent here, he was just _pleased_ that this hellhole happened to be on their way. 

Vegeta stopped running and switched on his scouter, folding his arms and impatiently drumming his fingers on his bicep. A few seconds later the device beeped silently, and his lips immediately twisted into a sinister smirk. _'Long time no see, scum',_ he thought, cracking his neck and reaching for his phone.

“ _Found a nice place for runnin'?”_ Nappa's voice came on the line.

“There is nothing  _ nice  _ about this shithole,” he replied, glancing briefly at the dark blue band around his wrist. “Stop wasting my time and get ready. Fishdick is on his way.”

“ _Now that's what I was itchin' to hear! And lemme guess,” -_ at that Vegeta let out an irritated growl, but Nappa didn't seem to mind -  _ “you have a plan ?” _

“ _ Yes _ ,” he said through gritted teeth and ended the call, unhurriedly pulling out the SIM card and sliding the phone into his pocket. He had been destined for bigger things-,  _ greater _ things, and yet here he was, acting like a cheap criminal... He gritted his teeth harder, trying to clear his head and get rid of those thoughts. He knew he had to endure a little longer. There was no going back - and nothing to go back to _ ,  _ so what was the point in overanalyzing things? He snapped the card in half and ripped off the tiny golden chip, mangling it even more and throwing it into a nearby sewer, then readjusted the holster on the small of his back, eager to feel the comforting weight of the gun in his hands. True, his little excursion had been a good way to lessen his frustration and deal with boredom - he'd even managed to give some idiot and his bitch quite a scare (though he was a bit disgusted with himself for acting like a damn juvenile), but nothing could compare to the adrenaline rush he was going to experience soon.

Oh, yes - it was finally time to let the  _ real  _ fun begin. 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, I know,” he replied in a bored tone, unfolded his arms and started casually adjusting the wrist part of his left, then right glove, his bare fingers curling and uncurling a few times, as if to check the fit. Suddenly his head snapped up and he fixed him with a deadly, hateful glare, bending his knees and slightly leaning forward. “You _die_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Same as in chapter 15, since I'm posting both on the same day :)

_Disclaimer: I don’t own anything – characters, songs and quotes mentioned in this story belong to their respective authors and are not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is (and will be) for entertainment purposes only._

 

**CHAPTER 16**

Bulma had been running between the abandoned buildings for the last fifteen or so minutes, desperately trying to catch up with her freakishly fast target. He had stopped only once, but at that point she'd been struggling with climbing over a tin fence. _'Thank God I like my dresses casual and short,'_ she thought, pleased that she didn't have to deal with offending material around her knees or, worse yet, ankles. The dress allowed her to move her legs freely, but the climbing part had been quite risky – after all, her panties could hardly be dubbed 'crotch guard of the year'. She wondered where the hell was he headed – from the looks of it, somewhere towards the old railway siding, but she couldn't be sure. She was slowly running out of breath, but - tired or not - she was _the_ Bulma Briefs, and she was not going to sit here and wait for her father to set up a secure connection and download the data from her PND to give it to the boys. Nuh-huh, not happening - she was the one who had been constantly racking her brains, slaving over her computer and pulling all-nighters. And she wanted to show Yamcha that she was _not_ going to lay back and start acting _'her age'_ and _'less like a raucous teenager, more like a grown up woman'_ just because he said so. She did what she wanted, and nobody, not even Yamcha - _especially_ not Yamcha - was going to change that.

With that in mind, Bulma cast a quick glance at the PND and forced her legs to keep moving forward.

\- - -

 

Vegeta was sitting on the ground with his back against an old goods wagon, meticulously cutting X's into some of his bullets. He hadn't done that in a very long time, but waiting for Cui only fueled his resolve to cause the bastard as much pain as it was possible, and altering the ammunition seemed like a good enough idea. He was well aware that Nappa was watching him intently, and something told him that he was about to open his _fucking_ -

 

“Old school, huh?”

_Oh for fuck's sake..._

“But ya remember they can get a little out of hand?” Nappa inquired, getting up from the large hunk of concrete and propping his battered rifle up against the wagon, right next to Vegeta's well-kept, though definitely not new one.

“Do I look like an imbecile?” he snapped, barely resisting the urge to fling his knife right between Nappa's eyes. He cast him a furious glance and went back to the task at hand, pulling out his spare clip and swiftly loading it with altered bullets. He didn't want to-, _didn't have to_ justify his actions, and he despised people who had the gall to suggest that he didn't know _this_ or omitted _that_ , in most cases just because they were older. And Nappa was, unfortunately, one of those people.

The man in question noticed the change in Vegeta's demeanor – the telltale tensing of his muscles, the way his jaw shifted slightly from side to side to finally clench and, more often than not, stay this way until he decided to speak or trade blows with somebody, along with the anger boiling in his narrowed eyes. Nappa should have been used to it by now, but ever since Vegeta was a child, there was something... _unsettling_ about the look in his eyes, something that made Nappa look away after mere seconds every time he'd tried to find out _what_ it was.

“Of course you don't,” the older man replied, immediately backing away and lighting up a cigarette to keep his hands busy.

But Vegeta wasn't paying attention to Nappa – his eyes were trained on a pile of broken concrete and bricks that was haphazardly arrayed in the corner of the siding.

\- - -

_'Shit!'_ Bulma cursed inwardly as she stepped on an empty beer can. She stood still for a while, not even daring to breathe and praying that it wouldn't be enough to get her into even _more_ trouble. Her heart was hammering in her chest so fast that it was threatening to pop out, but she had a hard time with determining whether it was out of fear or excitement. _'Probably both,'_ she thought, finally calming down and ready to move, but at that very moment another sound reached her ears – a muffled, but no doubt increasingly distinct, sound of an approaching vehicle; a car, she supposed. Bulma immediately tensed and pressed herself into a conveniently dished piece of concrete. _'Please, let it be the guys...'_

Still, she had a feeling that she wasn't in for a pleasant surprise.

\- - -

Vegeta watched from their vantage point as Cui nonchalantly stepped out of his car, completely oblivious to his surroundings. _'Lousy fool,'_ he thought, sneering with disgust and motioning with his head for Nappa to follow him. He had observed Cui's movements over the past few days and, just as expected, the bastard showed up here an hour or so before noon. Why? He didn't know, and - frankly - didn't care, but if the empty cans riddled with bullets or shattered bottles were any indication, Cui treated this place as a shooting range of sorts. Come to think of it, maybe he should readjust his earlier plan... Hanging the fucker by his wrists and emptying a clip into his body before finishing him off sounded even _better_ than emptying a clip into his severed head – besides, who said that he couldn't do both? Having made up his mind, Vegeta smirked wickedly and raised his gun. _'Time to kiss the dust, loser.'_

 

They silently moved forward and were now standing only a few yards behind Cui, who was busy with tapping his pockets in search for something, having yet to turn around and become aware of their presence. For a split second Vegeta was tempted to pull the trigger and just get it over with, but he knew that it wouldn't be satisfying - it wouldn't be the painful, prolonged and humiliating death that Cui deserved. He nodded to Nappa and pointedly cleared his throat, finally making Cui turn around – and he noticed with satisfaction that the scumbag was having a hard time covering the look of pure shock on his ugly, sickly looking and ever-bluish mug. For fuck's sake, he didn't even reach for his gun... How pathetic was _that_ ? But, on the other hand, Cui drawing out his gun wouldn't change a thing - after all, it was they who had ambushed _him,_ not the other way around.

 

Both sides eyed each other for a while, but neither of the men moved nor uttered a single word. Eventually, Cui shook his head lightly and chuckled, “Well, well, the magnificent two... Don't tell me you've left the third one in some whorehouse and decided to pay me a visit - missed me much?”

Vegeta just rolled his eyes. “Delusional as always, I see,” he replied, slightly cocking his head to the right. “Nevertheless, congratulations on learning how to count.”

Cui's hand clamped around the handle of his gun, “That's rich, especially coming from an uneducated, filthy orphan crumb who-” he cut off abruptly, barely managing to avoid getting stabbed in the calf, and watched as the blade cut into the tire. The nerve of that little barbarian! How the hell was he able to pull out and throw his knife so fast? “Son of a bitch!” Cui yelled, this time drawing out and cocking his pistol - but he didn't pull the trigger. He suspected what game Vegeta was intending to play with him – and he wasn't about to protest and throw away his chance to finally show the overconfident brat that no matter how hard he tried, he wouldn't be able to beat him one-on-one.

“Nice throw, Vegeta!” came Nappa's amused voice, but Vegeta didn't even glance his way. He kept on staring at Cui, silently daring him to shoot. Cui remained still. _'Good'_ , Vegeta thought, _'the idiot actually seems to understand what it's all about.'_

“Enough with pleasantries,” he stated, briefly glancing at Cui's outstretched hand and then training his eyes back back on the man's face. “Drop the gun,” he ordered in a gravely voice.

Cui laughed. “You sure can be predictable for a headcase, Vegeta,” he taunted, but Vegeta just gritted his teeth and stared at him harder. “I mean, don't get me wrong - I wasn't actually expecting to see you here-, but did you _really_ think that the Honcho was going to fall for your scheme? He _knows-_ , but for some reason he's _so fond_ of you that he's actually giving you a chance to come to your senses,” - he paused and snorted, earning a low, warning growl from Vegeta - “though he's rather... _disappointed-,_ oh, and still pretty upset about-” his head whipped to his left, just in time to see the rear side windows of his car shattering into little pieces. Well, he should probably stop pushing his luck – he was better when it came to fighting skills, but that wasn't quite enough to survive a shoot-out while being outnumbered.

Vegeta didn't even bat an eyelid, and within seconds his gun was back into its previous position – pointed right at Cui. “Consider it a final warning, scum,” he ground out through gritted teeth. On the outside, he seemed to be perfectly calm and composed, but on the inside he was _seething_. He could feel it coursing through his veins, the boiling, ever-growing mixture of bitterness, hate, resentment and loathing, the overpowering desire to cause _pain -_ both to his opponent and himself, because it was the only thing that made him feel _alive._ Even if only for a moment. “Nappa. Drop your gun,” Vegeta barked, his eyes never leaving Cui's face.

Nappa blanched. He knew that Vegeta had a plan, although he also knew better than to ask him for details, especially after Sunday's fiasco. “B-but Ve-” he started, but shut himself up as soon as he noticed the rhythmic clenching and unclenching of Vegeta's left fist. It boded no good, so he backed away, sat on the ground and laid his weapon in front of himself.

That caused Cui to laugh and whistle in mock amazement. “Huh, who would've thought... But what _now_ , Vegeta?” he asked, gesturing with his head to their outstretched hands.

“Don't make me repeat myself,” Vegeta drawled, scowling furiously at the man in front of him.

Cui just shook his head and shrugged, then took a few steps forward and started slowly lowering the hand that held his pistol. _'Finally,'_ Vegeta thought, smirking knowingly and mimicking Cui's actions, _'though you're in for a surprise, fucker.'_ Seconds later they were standing within arm's reach of each other, their now uncocked guns pointed at the ground, though neither of them was willing to be the first to drop his weapon. Cui looked at Vegeta warily, suddenly not liking the fact that the man's wretched, presumptuous smirk seemed to broaden, and his eyes-

He didn't get to finish his musings.

In a flash, Vegeta threw his gun to the side and grasped Cui's left arm with his own, effectively wrenching it as he moved to stand behind him, simultaneously clamping the fingers of his right hand on his opponent's right elbow, making him yelp in pain and lose his grip on the gun. Just then he delivered two well-placed kicks, one to the back of Cui's left knee, the other to the back of his right, and simply let go of him, watching as he plummeted towards the ground. He maneuvered his body just in time to fall onto his side, cursing loudly as his shoulder connected with the hard surface – and even though Vegeta would have preferred to see him laying face-first in the dust, he knew that this could easily be arranged. He promptly kicked the gun out of Cui's reach and looked down at him with contempt, crossing his arms across his chest and letting out a short, dark chuckle. Their fight was far from being over, but he couldn't help but admire his handiwork. And that was just the beginning, because he wasn't intending on letting Cui to just lay here – at least, not yet. Not until he made him feel completely, _utterly_ defeated. Disgraced. _Worthless._ Just like-

“Yeah, you fuckin' show him what we do to scumbags, Vegeta!” Nappa's excited, resounding yell broke the silence, and that was all Cui needed to snap out of his bewildered state – he leapt to his feet, rolled his shoulders back and sneered.

“That was low, Vegeta - even for you. That's _not_ how you play this game,” Cui said, slowly shaking his head in mock disappointment and then balling his hands into fists and assuming a fighting stance. “But I think you know what's going to happen, right?”

“Oh, I know,” he replied in a bored tone, unfolded his arms and started casually adjusting the wrist part of his left, then right glove, his bare fingers curling and uncurling a few times, as if to check the fit. Suddenly his head snapped up and he fixed him with a deadly, hateful glare, bending his knees and slightly leaning forward. “You _die_.”

\- - -

Bulma was laying on her stomach, watching through a chink between the debris as the two men exchanged blows, splattering blood and saliva all over the ground. She had managed to crawl a bit closer (maybe _too_ close, taking into consideration that they also had moved), so she'd heard almost every word – needless to say, her mind was reeling with questions, and it didn't help that she was the only one who had no clue about what was _really_ going on here. Shit, it just felt surreal... How many of those sonofabitches were lurking around, just waiting to crawl out of their hollow and wreak some more havoc? Who exactly were they? And who was their 'Honcho'? Sure, now she knew that the huge, bald one was called Nappa, and the short, clearly disturbed one - Vegeta, but it was not as though she could just whip out her phone and start digging through databases to check whether or not she would be able to find something about them. From what the newcomer - 'Slimy', as she dubbed him – said, she concluded that the two of them went AWOL, but she had yet to discover _why_ and what was their actual purpose. The three of them obviously weren't on the best of terms, and now they were acting like a bunch of cocksure, high on testosterone, mindless fucks on an ego trip... ' _Probably because one is a huge brute with face untainted with thought, the other is a vicious, wicked psycho who played with sniper rifles as a kid, and the third one actually looks like he's high on something,'_ her mind offered, but she knew that couldn't be the only reason. Slimy and Vegeta seemed to hate each other with a passion, and if she had to gue-

There was a loud _THUD_ as Slimy landed face-first on the ground, spitting blood and groaning. His right shoulder had been injured earlier during the fight, and he wasn't really able to do anything to free himself - Vegeta was holding him down, half-kneeling with his right knee digging into his lower back, applying just enough pressure to temporarily render his legs useless, right hand firmly clamped on the man's neck and the other once again wrenching his left arm. Then he simply jerked the limb up higher and pulled upwards, and Bulma heard the unmistakable _SNAP,_ accompanied by the man's muffled, pained scream.

His arm fell limply to his side, but Vegeta didn't look like he was willing to let him go _–_ on the contrary, the damn bastard was smirking in satisfaction and watching the man's face with what Bulma could only describe as sick, wicked fascination, laced with a promise of even _more_ pain. And, what was worse, she knew that it was not an empty promise – he seemed to take delight in violence, to relish each and every drop of his opponent's blood, _enjoy_ the way it splattered onto the ground and take _pride_ in the fact that he was the one to draw it. And _shit_ , it was streaked across his face and staining his white gloves, shoes and vest - and it all but made her shiver with disgust, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to close her eyes. Okay, he was a psycho, but it was not like he was _really_ going to kill the man, right..?

In a flash, Vegeta shifted his position – now he was pinning Slimy down with his left knee, his right hand clamped around the man's right wrist and the other holding him by the hair so that he could see the right side of his face. At that point the big idiot, Nappa, started whistling and howling loudly, but a dark look from Vegeta was enough to make him shut up. Just then Vegeta leaned forward - and _laughed._ A short, cynical, humorless laugh that made her hair stand on end. Shit, she was _sooo_ starting to regret playing brave, she should have just-

“ _Do you understand it_ now _, Cui?”_ \- she heard him say, and his low, raspy voice did nothing to calm her down. But maybe he was just basking in his glory? Maybe he just wanted to prove the guy – Cui, if she'd heard correctly – that he was stronger, or more skilled than him, and now he was just going to brag about it for a while and... umm, _leave.._? _'Just cut it out, it's not like the guy can fight anymore..'_ she thought, involuntarily pressing a hand over her mouth. Then Cui coughed, though it sounded a bit like he was trying to laugh.

“ _You fucking... little bitch...”_ _he wheezed, but surprisingly Vegeta didn't react to his insult._ “ _How many fuckin' vials... did you need?”_ \- wait, what the hell, was he talking about drugs or what? - _“C'mon, we both know - and spare me the shit 'bout honor, you had to take somethin',”_ \- yep, drugs or steroids, but for some weird reason she didn't think that his allegations were true - _“But play until you can... 'Cause when they find you... you'll be beggin' them to stop- and it's quite a sight, I remem-”_

At that precise moment Vegeta's knee pressed harder on the man's back.

“ _Shut.up.” -_ he growled the words, and _shit_ , she'd never meet anyone whose voice alone was enough to make her feel so... _uneasy_ \- _“Only pathetic, spineless fools would stoop so low as to inject themselves with fucking chemistry - and I am not, never have been, nor ever will be one of them. You are. I am above that.”_ \- well, if you'd ask Bulma, he certainly sounded like he meant it.

Cui managed to let out a short laugh, but just then Vegeta smirked cruelly and slightly shifted his right foot, placing it on Cui's elbow and simultaneously changing his grip around the man's wrist. _“You can start screaming now, fucker.”_

And only now Bulma noticed Cui's palm-, and _fuck_ that could only mean that-

Vegeta abruptly pushed Cui's arm upwards, forcing his elbow to bend at an angle _no_ elbow should _ever_ bend... He snapped his arm in half as if it were nothing more than a twig-, and _shit_ there was blood, and tissue, and _bones_ protruding from _-_

_'Enough,enough,enough...,'_ she chanted as she closed her eyes and covered her ears with her hands, biting her forearm and damn near drawing blood to stop herself from crying out - but it did nothing to tune out Cui's agonized, bloodcurdling screams. She wanted to vomit, but she couldn't - it was as if her own body was hell-bent on doing everything to protect her from drawing attention to herself. So she wanted to faint - she would _prefer_ to faint, because she didn't think that she could bear it any longer without going insane or doing _something_ to make it all just _stop..._

And, a few seconds later, it stopped. She slowly uncovered her ears - she could hear her own heavy breathing, the frantic beating of her heart and someone's, probably Nappa's, amused chuckles, but nothing more. _'Shitshitshitshit, he killed him, he fucking killed him...'_ she thought with horror. Then someone snorted derisively, and she just _knew_ that it had to be Vegeta. She was right.

“ _Pathetic.” -_ she heard him say, his voice flat, but that didn't stop Nappa from chuckling even louder, acting as if he'd just heard the funniest shit _ever_ and was barely refraining from laughing out loud.

“ _Heheh, yeah, he was out cold in no time.”_ \- at that, one of Bulma's eyes popped open - _“I'll go get ammonia before he checks out,”_ \- say what? - “ _he'll need that to-”_

“ _No. This scum is not worth my time.”_

_'Snooty, fucked up sadist,'_ she commented inwardly. Shit, where were the boys? She didn't know how much time had passed, but they were taking a bit _too_ long for her liking... If only she could trust her legs, she would try to back out and just _get the hell out of here_ – but she couldn't, so she just stayed where she was.

A _tremendous_ mistake.

Vegeta got to his feet, hauling Cui up by his hair into a kneeling position. The man's mutilated, limp arms were dangling uselessly at his sides, and the sudden movement seemed to have caused him enough pain to briefly regain consciousness - his mouth opened slightly, but he only managed a long, anguished groan. _“I hate you,”_ was all Vegeta said before tightening his grip on Cui's hair and landing a powerful right side kick on the man's back while simultaneously yanking his head backward.

Cui's spine broke-, _shattered_ with a loud, sickening crack - and that was just _too much_ for Bulma.

She screamed and leapt up from the ground, too shocked to control her actions, too horrified to remember that this part of the heap was lower than the one she'd been hiding behind earlier. Her head was spinning, so she outstretched her left hand in an attempt to brace it against the debris, but then she realized that the pile reached only to her waist and-

She froze.

Standing only several dozen yards away from her, ramrod straight, with his arms folded across his chest and face twisted into a menacing scowl, was the only man whose attention she would have preferred _not_ to attract.

And he was glaring straight at her.

 


End file.
